


Fire and Rose

by lori (zakhad)



Series: Captain and Counselor [42]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-05
Updated: 2010-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-05 20:36:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zakhad/pseuds/lori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During short leave on a Betazoid colony, Amy makes her appearance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire and Rose

**Author's Note:**

> Referenced: Actions Speak Louder, Omega Doorstop, On the Madhouse Boards, Girl Mad as Birds -- also a sequel to Test of Focus

The waiting area on the starbase is crowded at intervals. Right now it's quieter than it's been. Jean took Yves to find a restroom, so I'm catnapping and thinking, with Fidele at my feet.

We decided to take a civilian transport for a couple of reasons, the largest one being that we were just too tired to fly ourselves. When Will's invitation came, we almost turned it down because we were so tired. Jean said we needed time away, however, and that convinced me it was needed. He doesn't take time away from his ship of his own volition often. That he's been on medical leave for months hardly matters. He's invested so much of his identity in his captainhood that it often worried me. I think I only stopped worrying as a counselor when I started worrying as a wife. Of course, it's only gotten more complicated than before.

They've offered him a promotion. He hasn't told me, but he has the same reaction each time, a contemplative mood for a little while, brooding looks at me and our son, and then he moves on. It's funny, they offer but don't force the issue, with him or anyone else. I wonder if that's because enrollment lagged and they need people in uniform. I think back to my commanding officers -- the few and barely-remembered pre-Enterprise captains and commanders -- and see how outdated their attitudes and behavior would be now, in the era of self-determination in Starfleet. Command's attitude must reflect their awareness of social dynamics in space and the unique challenges we face.

One aspect of said dynamics -- the two-edged sword of the faithful officer. If one views the operation of a starship and the best interests of a mission in terms of objectives being accomplished without undue turmoil, a professional group of officers who have just been assigned to a vessel can be more effective than a professional group of officers who have been aboard for six years and spent time playing cards together. A captain sending someone in to sacrifice himself for the survival of the crew can be more detached without that personal connection.

Yet, if there is no personal connection, one has a crew of loners whose psychological health is at issue. Going home to family and friends at the end of the day isn't possible for starship crew, who spend years in space sometimes. The statistics on the high incidence of depression in career officers were significantly dire, just a decade ago; the numbers drove Command to reconsider policy on allowing families aboard starships, and to assign ship's counselors.

But there were, and are, still holdovers from before counselors were assigned to starships. Jean-Luc Picard had detached himself and though he'd spoken to counselors before, I was his first ship's counselor. I count my blessings that his upbringing made him a gentleman; I sensed his discomfort from the very beginning. He didn't like the idea of my being able to sense things about him that he did not want to reveal, but humans who are also 'gentlemen' pride themselves on their manners and he could hardly argue with me if I quoted regulations. After a while, he learned that I wasn't going to reveal everything I sensed and began to relax.

I think about that phase now with a smile. He used to look at me and see the pretty counselor. Then he would remember I'm Betazoid and nervousness would creep in. He got used to me then went through it all over again years later, only then, he had known me and trusted me for so long that it wasn't new, just a reminder and a revelation that I knew more than I would ever reveal. I remain in awe of his willingness to embrace me as I am. 'Accept' is a limited term. He embraced me, at times pursued me, with the same drive that pushed him to command, assuming very little.

I am jarred from my thoughts by a presence coming closer and footsteps nearby. It's only a woman -- a very pregnant one, like me. She flashes an uncertain smile. She's chosen my mostly-empty row of seats for the same reason I have, it's on an aisle and maneuvering is easier. We're a minority of two. I haven't seen another pregnant person in our stopover at this starbase until now.

Short mahogany hair, unlined heart-shaped face, sweet smile. There is a quality I can sense from her that I only find in the young. 'Simplicity' has a derogatory nuance in human cultures but the stricter definition of it suits my purposes. Uncomplicated. Human minds acquire texture over time. In that part of them I can detect, there are ripples and edges of their past, left while processing input continuously over the years. I've slowly learned to read some of these -- it's a process I would imagine to be like drawing a map of all the processes and connections within a ship's computer. There are constants but the variances from one person to the next are so. . . variable. Drastically different, in some cases.

In some specific, wonderful cases. I can tell he's returning, as he and Yves have been in the back of my mind all this time, and his frustration has ebbed with the completion of the task of getting an inquisitive four-year-old boy to a socially- acceptable place where he can relieve himself.

Fidele stirs, probably picking up my response to their return on sensors we've learned are keener than one would expect. He glances at me, his long tail thumps on the deck plates, but he remains as we have ordered him, lying at my feet and vigilant. On our set of boarding passes, he's listed as a 'belonging' due to his synthetic nature, and a quick scan from security personnel can confirm this as needed. It's the only reason he's allowed to travel with us instead of in a pet container.

As I check the bags visually, though I know none have been disturbed, the rest of my family arrives and Yves picks up his little bag, which we gave him mostly because he always wants to feel included. It's his frivolous bag -- it contains his favorite shirt, a supply of Guinan's cookies, his favorite books, and his little Starfleet officer pajamas that he would wear around the clock if we let him. Mr. Tiggles is too big to be stuffed in a bag so the plush targ is jammed under his arm. He insisted on fastening his own pants and did so crookedly.

He informs me in high-pitched syllables of his successful completion of 'yoowination.' That's going to be a short-lived word in his vocabulary. He must have overheard it in the restroom. The girl sitting nearby smoothing her tentlike tunic over her swollen abdomen glances our way -- I don't have to look to know that, as I can feel her amusement and interest, prickling like fingernails dragged along the back of my shirt. She'd fallen into a broody contemplation as I had, but Jean and Yves startled her.

Jean's emotions get fuzzy when he's tired, but as he touches my arm, the interference clears and his affection focuses on me. A greeting of sorts. The fuzziness returns slowly as we gather our things and head for the terminal to wait in a line forming under a red-lettered sign, 'Gate A2,' where we will board the transport. From behind us I can tell when the girl recognizes Captain Picard at last -- a flicker of shock, recognition, and brief regret. She wishes she had spoken to him. Someone, herself or her husband or brother perhaps, read about Captain Picard, studied his career even.

It would be easier for me if he were some other captain. Not everyone recognizes him, but even one instance in a thousand can be irritating when one is traveling through the Federation. In so many ways, I am overshadowed and ignored. It isn't his fault, though, and I never went into Starfleet in search of notoriety. It's only bothersome because it bothers him. Several in the line have recognized us, or perhaps they are curious about the oddity of a dog traveling loose; their interest registers as intruding blips against my mind, and with effort I could determine who of the crowd are paying attention, but instead I grip my son's hand and try not to be too anxious. My reflex reaction whenever I sense excessive unwarranted interest from strangers is vigilance, which isn't conducive to a peaceful vacation.

We stand together, pressed in by the others in the line, and unexpectedly I find my free hand enveloped in Jean's. He doesn't do that, or didn't. But things have changed. He's thinking about me now and his feelings run high, as they did at the beginning of our relationship. He stares at the floor with that carefully-blank expression, but his fingers cradle mine as if he doesn't want to break them and I sense that he wants to hold me in his arms.

It's been this way since the Babel conference -- since he experienced terror upon finding me bleeding due to placenta previa. He would think of me; I could feel it across the ship. And a while later, if he continued to think of me, he would seek me out and make small talk, while leaning invitingly until I gave in and hugged him. I can't figure out who he's reassuring. I think it's him, but I feel better too, afterward. If it weren't so out of character I would think nothing of it, but it's one more phase in the long healing process we've been undergoing.

Jean has all our bags and is nearly swept along by a large man forcing himself back through the line. Fidele stays close to my legs without getting in the way, amazing in this crowd. Yves tries to free himself from my grip on his hand, and again I regret not getting a tether as Malia suggested. I don't want to let go in this crowd. I don't want to hurt him, however, and he's stronger than I'd think a child his size could be.

"Yves," I chide at last. "Stand up. Stay here."

He stops dangling and leaning in the direction he wanted to go, toward the viewports, and looks up at me with that smile. Just an immature version of Papa's most charming smile, but even if he didn't add the childish giggle and a dimple, it's enough to melt Maman. To make matters worse, Papa leans and murmurs French complaints in my ear, something about the floor being too red and the ceiling too low, neither of which is true. But the woman in front of us elbows her partner and mutters something about how romantic the French language is, and he replies that he thought it was Betazoid.

Which is ridiculous because French is off the tongue and out of the throat, and Betazoid comes from the tip of the tongue and from just behind the teeth -- our attempts to help Yves with speaking both resulted in this summation, anyway -- and the two languages sound not at all alike. But Jean makes it worse by switching, and murmurs about the flexing of the walls in Betazoid, the odd smell of his hair, and it becomes obvious that he's lost track of what he's saying but rambling on, stringing together the words he knows without regard for grammar. It pleases the woman anyway. She still thinks it's French and romantic.

Yves looks up at me with a furrowed brow, confused. "Papa's being silly!"

"Papa is French. He can't help it."

"I love to listen to spoken French," the woman says, turning to address us directly and ignorant of the fact that Yves has spoken in Betazoid and I have responded in the same. "Are you from Paris?"

It's commonly presumed that France equals Paris. Jean has said that most people who recognize his name as French ask him this same question, and I know how he feels. Those unfamiliar with Betazed assume that I speak the same language as every other Betazoid. My regional dialect has little in common with the other ten, we make up for it by speaking telepathically, but it's incredibly common for offworlders to presume that all of us speak one language.

"We are from a small village near the Rhine," Jean-Luc tells her in Standard, with the thickest French accent I've ever heard.

Not believing that he's doing this, I have to push it further, to see what else he would do. "Your hair reminds me of a large weed that grows in the oceans at home," I tell her in Betazoid.

Six people ahead of us, someone bursts out laughing. There is a translator in the crowd. Several others standing near enough to reap the benefit of it lean to peer back at us, grins on their faces.

The line moves another increment, then another. Jean's hand shifts palm to palm with mine and he smiles, his grown-up version of Yves' heart-melting charmer, and this time his French is whispered low so no one can hear. I'm glad for that; my toes are nearly curling in my shoes and I am wishing for a fan by the time we reach the podium where Jean innocently asks me in Standard to get the boarding pass out of one of the bags.

I'm going to like being on leave so far from the ship.

~^~^~^~^~

She seems happy enough. It's been quite a trip, for all that we've not even left the sector; two transports seems excessive for such a short journey. But the change in her attitude started when Geordi left us at the starbase, really, and it's nice to see her relax this way. Although there had been moments of brief reprieve from her sadness over the past months, she had not been herself. She's beginning to unfold, to open her defenses and blossom, a welcome occurrence in spite of my not knowing what changes have really taken place through the last months.

Will meets us at the transporter when we beam down from the orbital station. He's alone, and beaming as if he's never been happier. Yves is shy at first, but at the sound of Uncle Will's voice he quickly thaws.

"The house isn't far from here," Will says as we leave the building. Other tourists disperse around us, ignoring us. "But we can get a taxi if. . . ." He glances at Deanna pointedly. She's waddling and trying to keep up.

"I'd like to walk. Maybe it'll induce labor," she announces cheerfully, with a slight twist to her smile that usually indicates teasing.

Will stops walking. He laughs after a moment spent deducing the seriousness of her statement. "Right. I'll get a taxi."

"I'd rather walk." Deanna heads down the ramp and hesitates on the walk, looking back for direction. She was only teasing about labor; she does want the exercise. She didn't do well on bed rest.

"All right, then. That way." Will gives me a look of disbelief that I'm not trying to talk her out of it.

On the way down the street, Yves runs ahead greeting strangers, his bag banging the ground at times. I let Deanna take the lead on calling him back; she can sense intent before anything can happen. Our child, so shy when addressed directly by name, has no difficulty speaking to a trio of Betazoids, who laugh and speak to him in their language, and laugh again when he responds in the same.

"He's getting big," Will comments. He walks with me, the largest of our bags over his shoulder. We're puttering along at a slower pace than Deanna.

"They all do, eventually."

A pause. "Too fast."

"It's a false perception. There's too many distractions, too much work, which makes it appear they grow too fast -- but I understand what you mean."

Fidele bumps the back of my leg with his head. What is he doing back here when Yves and Deanna have gone ahead? I hesitate and glance down, and Will follows my lead. Fidele barks once.

"Did you want something? Will knows you're an android, by the way." The reassurance will free him from our restriction on speaking around others.

"You requested that I monitor Deanna . I detected a contraction."

Ignoring Will's expression of surprise, I sigh and shift the straps on my left shoulder. "That happens. It doesn't mean labor until they're stronger and more frequent. Remember the parameters the doctor gave for labor onset?" I almost regret making the request. I had worded it specifically to take advantage of Fidele's sensors, to detect a long list of symptoms Deanna might have without knowing it. What I hadn't expected was the burst of initiative that led him to uplink with the computer and make a study of her condition. Data has programmed this creature well, indeed.

A few seconds pass, and Fidele blinks. It takes that long sometimes, and I wonder if it's a forced hesitation for our sakes. "Yes. I will remember." He trotted past us and caught up with Deanna, who'd reached a corner and waited for us.

"He's a dog with the functionality of a tricorder, more or less. Still developing his ability to reason, and programmed to be eager to please," I tell Will in hopes of his dropping the eyebrow again.

"He sure sounds like Data -- his voice is a little higher-pitched, maybe, but there's something about his diction. Can't wait to see what John makes of him. We've thought about asking Data to come up with a cat for us."

Ithica is a beautiful planet. The sky is a shade darker blue than Earth's, but most other details are reminiscent of home -- something that's surprisingly satisfying. I don't quite understand Deanna's insistence that this would be acceptable; I didn't mind sharing leave with Will and Bell, but the house they've borrowed is in a small town. I wish she had allowed me to rent something closer to the hospital in the nearest city.

Will and I fall silent, which is unusual, considering it's been months since our last face-to-face encounter. For me, it's the last six months of strain -- on me, on my marriage, on my career, on Deanna. She looks better now than she has in past months, waddling down the street and calling to Yves, her gray dress making her stand out from the rest of the pedestrian traffic. I pay close attention to her movements, looking for signs of pain.

"You're quiet."

"A bit tired, perhaps. It's a long trip on public transports with an excited four-year-old."

Deanna goes across the street -- it's not very wide, barely one lane, and there doesn't seem to be much traffic -- to admire some flowers in someone's front yard with Yves, who's picking them. I notice her wince as she straightens again, but before I can alter course, she glances at me and smiles, turning on That Look. Her eyes meet mine, her love for me lighting up her face, and just as swiftly it's gone as she turns back to Yves, who holds up a flower for her. Her expression softens to maternal affection and pride.

"How is everything, Jean-Luc?" Will asks, more serious than casual this time.

I almost say fine, but that has been the automatic answer too often. "As well as can be expected. It's been worse, but it's getting better."

Will looks at me, brow furrowed, and chews his lower lip briefly. "I wish I could say the same."

"Starfleet?"

"Not directly. Bell has been a doctor for a year. She wants to stop being an intern and that won't happen on *Durant.* Can't rearrange the medical staff just for her."

His last comment is too carefully-casual. "Did she want you to try?"

Will watches Deanna moving along the street ahead of us and holding out her arms as Bell rushes across a yard to greet her. "She understands that I can't manipulate staffing directly, but there was a situation -- she wanted me to encourage or somehow maneuver someone who had been offered a position elsewhere, and I refused. I wish she'd understand we can't all get exactly what we want like you and Deanna."

I smile, hopefully appearing more sympathetic than ironic, and stride forward to join Deanna in greeting Bell. The toddler coming down the walk is John, with wide blue eyes and blond hair as expected from the holos we've gotten; he's hesitant but all eyes for Fidele, who stands apart from the commotion with waving tail.

Will hangs back and watches. I glance at him after I pull away from Bell's embrace, and he's crossed his arms. I could tell him that nothing is ever exactly what we want, that my own situation may appear to be ideal but that it's an outward appearance we cultivate -- everything that happens within the bounds of our relationship is no one's business but our own, and to continue in our careers as we have guided them, we must have that unity and solidarity. I could tell him that I have considered other options -- retirement from Starfleet for one or both of us, to either Betazed or Earth or some compromise splitting our time between the two. I could tell him all that's happened to us recently and how our lives have changed.

There is nothing I could tell him that would explain the emotional truths I have learned, however. I have discovered that some things are not easily put into words, and must be learned first-hand. A marriage is one of those things. I think too that they have not yet begun to experience the levels of pain and anxiety that Deanna and I have suffered. I wonder if it would break them apart, or bring them together. I fear it would be the former.

But, humans have a long history of unpredictability and surprising strength. One never knows. So, as we head into the house single file and Yves calls Fidele loudly, jealous of the dog's patient acceptance of John clinging to his collar, I do my best to ignore the chill in the air between Will and Bell, who do not look at each other's faces if they can help it and speak in careful, polite tones to one another.

I know that Deanna senses something; once inside, she takes my hand and turns toward me, cheek to my shoulder. A surge of affection and gratitude reaches me through our renewed bond. I brush my lips along her forehead and return the emotion. She tastes salty -- the walk in the sun was warm, and I'm concerned.

"A nap," I say, glancing at the hall that leads to the back of the house.

"I slept on the transport." She leans her chin on my shoulder.

"Not very long. At least sit down. Yves, stop that -- let John pet the dog. He won't hurt him. Show John how to be gentle."

Yves scowls, but stops trying to pull John's chubby hands from Fidele's head. "You do like dis, not so hard," he exclaims, stroking the dog's neck. "Don' pull his ears."

"Anyone want something to drink?" Will heads for the kitchen through an open door and asks for a glass of water.

Bell glances at the bags we dropped near the door, at the kitchen door, and after a shake of her head, picks up one of them. I meet Deanna's eyes briefly, nod at the nearest chair, and go to help move the luggage.

It's not going to be an ideal vacation, but as with everything else we've been through, we will manage.

~^~^~^~^~

This leave is not going to be quite what I expected.

When we arrived, I understood why Will had seemed so serious over subspace when he contacted us. I sensed at once that Will and Bell are emotionally at odds with each other, though their demeanor when we're all together is polite. Their behavior is such that Jean-Luc has noticed. Neither of us has said a word to each other or to our hosts about the emotional tension between the adults. That will change soon. I dealt with relationships in various phases of termination as a counselor, and I know that this relationship is a jammed weapon in the process of winding up to overload.

I'd rather not be on leave in the company of a feuding couple, even if they are close friends, given the months of strain on my own marriage and my condition. Still, Ithica is a Federation colony with a significant Betazoid presence. Giving birth on the ship can be stressful, and even if we must abandon the care of our doctor to do it, I still want Betazoid assistance this time. Jean-Luc doesn't understand completely why I'm willing to place my health and our child's birth in the hands of strangers, but that's cultural. Humans have different attitudes about relationships; even a half-Betazoid like me can sense enough about someone to know whether or not they are trustworthy and competent. Since we cannot return to Betazed in time, this colony will suffice.

After dinner, on our first evening in the house we're renting from one of Bell's cousins, Will and I are sitting on the porch. Inside the house, the shrieks of happy children; outside, the sigh of the wind in the trees in the front yard. Fidele reclines at my feet as usual. He's been put on pregnancy watch with Yves' blessing, though not without some cajoling and continuing reassurances.

"I wish," Will begins again, then loses the train of thought. Or decides not to finish. He glances down at the dog.

"Fidele, go play with the children."

The hound's head turns, tips back, and amber eyes regard me with detached assessment. His tail thumps. "I am not required?"

"I'll call you if I need you." He has very good hearing.

Fidele rises, stretching and yawning, and pads to the other end of the porch. Nosing the door open, he slips inside. A few seconds later the happy cries of the children acknowledge his arrival.

"She doesn't really talk to me any more," Will says. He's wistful -- how many times has he been this way over the years? How many times will he look back at his life and regret things that he's brought upon himself?

"Do you listen?"

He stares at me as if he doesn't believe I said it. "Yes. I would, if she'd just. . . ." He sighs, meshes his fingers, leans forward with his elbows on his knees. "I'm glad to see you're still together, anyway. At least that's working out."

I think about the months of awkwardness and guilt, my reactions to Jean-Luc's behavior, my failures, our fears and miscommunications, and decide not to respond. Will is not wanting my advice; I can read his mood too well. There are times when he will accept my criticism or suggestion, and this is not one of them.

The pull of the baby takes precedence; I feel myself slipping away from the conversation (what little there is) and adrift in awareness of Amy, three weeks from full term and more coherent emotionally than she has ever been. Unborn children have minimal cognition, but they do feel, and they do register to my empathy as individuals once the brain has developed. The difficulties with Jean-Luc and our bond had made it possible to fall into the gestational trance I had read about but hadn't experienced with Yves. Though we've recovered our bond, this habit of drifting continues.

"Deanna?" Will's worried. Before he can touch me, I raise my head, the habitual smile already there.

"Yes?"

Concern recedes from his eyes, puzzlement replacing it. "Sleepy?"

"Not at all. Thinking." And realizing that Jean-Luc is returning, I look down the street. This house is in a rural area, and the nearest market is a kilometer away. Jean-Luc comes into view around a corner, carrying a box, meaning he'd actually gotten something more than just the look around town he claimed it would be. While he strolls up the short walk to the porch I see again how different the husband is from the officer. Though no less poised, he smiles more often, meets my eyes without immediately looking away, and as he comes into the shade he gestures with his free hand toward the neighboring houses.

"The commercial part of town isn't far from here," he announces, putting the box on the floorboards. "And there's quite a tourist trade."

"What did you get?"

Rather than answering, he pulls out a parcel, which when unwrapped proves to be a wind chime. He hangs it along the front of the porch awning, where the rings in all sizes tinkle pleasantly.

"Oh, my," I exclaim, grinning. "You're trying to make me feel at home."

"Betazoid colonists make and sell souvenirs, apparently." Jean smiles, touches the chime, and the rings sway and collide in melodic combinations. "And they tune them to more pleasing harmonics."

"That's my grandmother's doing, actually. She trademarked the Holy Rings."

Surprise, from both Will and Jean, and shown so differently -- Jean raises an eyebrow and inclines his head more my direction, and Will openly gapes for a few seconds before sitting back in his chair and grinning at me.

"She noticed people were making copies of them. She went to court, stopped the manufacturing of the copies, and after many weeks of dickering with attorneys, won all rights to the Holy Rings and any likeness or recording or facsimile of them. Which is why these are in a different key, and more pleasing to the ear, not to mention the rings are made of different metal. They can make copies as long as they don't sound exactly like or look like the real thing, and as long as the appropriate fees are paid to the Fifth House for the right to do so."

"You never even mentioned that," Will exclaims, leaning away from me and eyeing me accusingly.

"I didn't see any reason to mention it. Most of the income goes to maintaining the House." I can't quit smoothing the dress I'm wearing over my abdomen. Calling it "my dress" is depressing; it's one of the dresses I wear because I'm temporarily forced to, and somewhat like a uniform in that respect. The soft pale gray material doesn't snag and is quite comfortable, but I hate it.

Jean produces a box of chocolates, which is perhaps predictable, given how smug and anticipatory he is, but there's more in there yet and he doesn't get this excited over just chocolates. He follows the box with a selection of frivolities he thinks I'll like, hair ornaments and different shades of nail polish and a lotion scented with Betazoid flower fragrance. It doesn't escape me that he's trying very hard not to react to Will's presence as he gives me these things, and this determination to please me makes me appreciate his efforts more than the items themselves.

While I pull back my hair and wind in a spiral beribboned hair wire, no doubt imported from the third province as it's in Third House colors, I ask what else is in the box.

"It's an antique I found," he replies. "Nothing much."

Which tells me he thinks I won't like it. I probably won't; it's likely one of those human artifacts that's profoundly unappealing even to modern human aesthetic standards, never mind my own Betazoid-influenced taste. But Will is highly amused by all of this, in a wholly human way that I find infuriating. As if Jean-Luc has somehow violated some sort of code by giving me these things. Jean dislikes having Will there to witness it, and Will is too entertained to bother with the idea of going inside. I'm upset by the undercurrent of this non-verbal competition -- it's something I've seen before, between Will and Worf too. They'd deny anything I said about it.

"Can I see it?"

When Jean raises it from the wrapping material, Will sniffs. I'm careful not to react at once. It's truly a hideous thing, a clock in the shape of a man, the hands and numerals in its belly. Faded and peeling paint, odd clothing, corpulence depicted in wood -- it appears to have been carved just to annoy me, quite successfully.

"Only twelve numbers," I say. "He looks rather unhappy."

"It's at least two centuries old. Probably from the estate of some colonist who didn't know what it was and didn't bother to check." Jean holds the clock awkwardly and scrutinizes it. "I had to wonder if it was a fake, but it was priced low enough that I thought it was worth the chance. We should be able to date it accurately with the ship's laboratory equipment. It's a replica of a winking eyes John Bull clock -- the eyelids are supposed to move with the ticking of the clock."

"Is it functional, then?" I want to ask who would fake something so hideous. I'm quite sure I don't want to know, however.

"I'm not certain." Encouraged by my apparent interest, he moves to sit at my left, on the small bench I occupy.

"Are you intending to restore it? It could use some paint."

"Merde, no. I wouldn't want to do that. Anything I do would decrease its value. If it's authentic, I might be able to get enough for it at auction on Earth to finance the renovation of the winery."

I smile, noting the reluctance as he speaks, but I react to the words rather than the emotion. "You don't want to keep it?"

He's never so like a little boy as when he is involved in the pursuit of his hobbies. The delight he takes in old, ugly things like this one has been tempered over time by the veiled criticism of others; the suggestion of my support paints a subtle smile over his resigned expression. This was an impulse buy, and he's having second thoughts.

"It's not exactly something one would put on display, and we hardly have the room in our quarters."

"I was thinking it would require more careful keeping, if it's so old. A climate-controlled case, like the ones we use in the House, perhaps. I'm sure Mother has a few empty cases in storage. She bought more than she needed when we were renovating twenty years ago. We could ask her if she would ship one to the chateau for it. He'd be right at home there."

I touch Jean's thumb, and he shifts the clock to his left hand to free his right to take mine. "If you asked, perhaps. She's less likely to tease you about it."

"You underestimate her interest in antiques. I'm continually surprised that you and she never discuss it -- it's a common interest, after all. But if it would satisfy your need to avoid contact, I'll call her when we return to the ship."

He hasn't looked at my face once since this conversation about the clock started. Will's still there, and to look at me would expose his expression, and therefore his emotions, to Will's scrutiny. He says nothing more, which is fine; I understand completely and tighten my grip on his hand.

"Could you check on Yves?" I can tell our son is frustrated, and John is howling up the scale to mezzo-soprano heights.

"Certainly." Jean-Luc takes the clock and the box with him.

Once the front door closes, shutting off a brief burst of full-volume screaming, I finally glance at Will. "I'm glad we're so entertaining."

Shock replaces all else. I have done him a disservice over the years in letting things go unchallenged. He's not used to that from me.

Yves has calmed -- Papa is there. John, however, remains upset, as does his mother. Bell's frustration is undergirded by anger; I wonder if it's at Will. He's been out here a long time.

"I'm sorry," Will says. It's a token apology.

"No need to be. We're accustomed to such scrutiny," I reply loftily, moving the chocolate box to the place Jean-Luc vacated, then the bag of vanity items. Picking one of the softer shades of nail polish, I add a layer of mauve over the clear coat on my thumbnail.

"Now you're being difficult."

"Tell me you don't have the same sort of disdain over buying Bell such gifts. I'd like to think better of you than I do. I suppose you found it amusing simply because you couldn't imagine him buying hair clips?"

"Deanna," he grumbles, then waits until I look at him again. He's quite serious. "Why are you angry at me?"

"Perhaps I'm upset because it always returns to the same issue -- what you want, what you've been deprived of, what you need. I don't imagine the problem in your relationship with Bell isn't mutual, but it disturbs me that you haven't done anything to change things."

"Counseling hasn't -- "

"It won't fix anything you refuse to fix," I exclaim, frustrated. "It's a tool, not a means to an end."

"You don't even know the details. Yet you judge and condemn me," he says coolly, beyond irritation into anger.

"You didn't even bother to consider any of my details before you decided all was well with Jean-Luc and I. It completely escaped you that under normal circumstances, he wouldn't take leave this way -- you didn't consider for a second the possible reasons I haven't sent you a message in over six months, when the normal interval was at most two. You're in pain, thus you're all you think about. And that's all you expect me to think about."

I struggle to my feet, snatch up my gifts, and run my fingers down the wind chime to hear its faint chord. Will says nothing as I go inside.

Bell is in a chair near the window, John in her arms as she sways and hums to him. She's let her hair grow in without coloring it, and in the sunlight it glows with reddish highlights though in normal lighting it's brown. On the thin blue-green carpet of the living area, Yves has emptied his bag of toys and is setting up a long line of action figures. I smile, though I don't care for the reminder of the little Starfleet uniforms and tiny phasers forever in tiny hands, and pat Fidele's head; the dog thumps his tail and keeps his attention on Yves' project.

"We pwotect you, Maman," Yves says with his usual cheerfulness.

"Who are we in danger from?"

Yves points at the shelf along the inside wall of the living room. "Him!"

The clock stands there, in all its faded and peeling glory, the hands forever on the one and the four, eyelids half closed. All the little phasers are aimed at it. I laugh. My son has my taste.

~^~^~^~^~^~

As I pick up the glass that's materialized in front of me, I hear Deanna's laughter and smile myself. That's been a rare sound lately. I've missed it.

When I return to the living room with my Tarkalian tea, Will is inside as well. Deanna retreats, skirts rustling, to the back of the house, a hand to her back. From her stiff posture, I gather all is not well. Will quickly hides the frustration that flits through his expression and grins at Yves, holding out his hands. "Want a lift?"

Yves charges into his hands and laughs wildly as he's propelled toward the ceiling. He's in his uniform pajamas already, a little red and black coverall that closes up the front.

Bell watches, a frown creasing her brow, until she notices my glance her way; she flashes me a smile and glances after Deanna. "I'm going to get my medkit and give her a check before bed."

Will, dangling Yves upside down, watches her go. With a shake of his head, he looks at me, mirrors his wife's false smile, and swings my son up, then deposits him on his feet. "I think it's bedtime, kiddo. John's already asleep."

"Awww," Yves cries, clinging to Will's leg. Will pulls away and goes to the deep, heavily-padded chair in the corner, where John has somehow draped himself over the arm, head and one arm hanging, a string of drool dangling from the corner of his lip.

"It's late. Go clean your teeth."

Yves scowls at me, throwing both arms over his head. "I'm not tired!"

"I said nothing about being tired. I'll help you, if you want."

"NO!" Yves races off, not toward the hall but the kitchen. "I want chocwatt!"

Catching him is a matter of leaning to my left and wrapping my arm around his waist. While he wails, I carry him toward the bathroom.

Once in front of the sink he does his best to clean his teeth on his own. Since there's nothing for him to stand on, I pick him up so he can spit. "Now can I have chocwatt?" he asks as I put him down.

"Tomorrow. If you go to bed now."

His expression of agony would make me relent, if he didn't use the same tactic so often. I escort the writhing, whining, over-tired, stubborn child of mine to the room he would share with John.

"Papa," he begins, as I tuck him into the one bed in the room. In the corner, in a portable crib, John snores lightly.

"Yes," I murmur when Yves doesn't continue.

"When Amy coming?" A yawn proves he's really ready for bed. "Tomowow?"

I wonder what he's overheard. "Soon. It's a surprise. Good night."

"Ni. . . ." He yawns, rubs his eye with a fist, and appears to drop off. I wait a moment before going to be sure he's really asleep.

Will has collapsed into the chair in the corner, shoulders sagging, head propped on his fist, one elbow on a chair arm. He's watching out the window. I glance out as I take the nearest chair; there are people on the porch of the house next door, sitting in the faint glow of a candle that's fluttering in the breeze.

"She's upset with me," Will mutters.

"Both of them, I think. I'm not certain about myself, either."

"Why is everyone blaming me? I'm not the only one at fault!"

There are all sorts of things I could say, none of which might help. "Aren't you being short-sighted about all of this?"

"What are you talking about?"

"What did Deanna say to you before she went in?"

Will sighs, letting his head fall back and closing his eyes. "Is everything all right? She's not herself at all. Neither are you."

"Everything isn't all right, but we're doing as well as could be expected." I pause, consider not saying anything, but before I'm even thinking about how to say it, I'm saying it -- I begin with a description of the mission going wrong, continue forward through my memories and include things I've since learned second-hand. The Asili, the Khevlin, the nightmarish K'Korll who haunted me in my sleep. The way Deanna had to take care of the captain's responsibilities, our children, and me. The admirals. The mission. The recovery of missing crew. The losses. Though I do not go into great detail, by the time I'm finished explaining what needs to be explained to provide context, then the story itself, Will is leaning forward and gaping at me in the near-darkness. Our neighbors have gone inside. The only light in our house is one left on in the hallway.

He realizes he's staring, turns away, and coughs quietly. "Well."

We sit for a while in silence. A soft ticking surprises me, then I realize -- it's the damn clock I'd purchased in the market. What was I thinking? From the porch comes the soft tinkling of the chimes. At least there'd been one success. Deanna's smile had been worth it.

"Well," Will repeats. He shifts about and slumps back in the chair. "I see why she wouldn't have any patience left for me. I'm sure our problems seem quite trivial."

"That isn't what -- "

"Because they are, aren't they? The most serious thing we've been involved in was the *Lexington*'s capture four years ago. Since we've been on the *Durant* we've done nothing but patrols, surveys, the infrequent away mission, a few low-key diplomatic endeavors -- no battles or serious casualties in the line of duty, no danger so great that the entire ship is threatened. My first officer handles most of it, frankly because there's not so much going on that I find it interesting enough to take it on myself. I kept telling myself that was best -- with John on board I felt better on scientific or diplomatic assignments. I don't know how you do it, Jean-Luc. All the risk and pain. But it seems to be working your way better than mine. She still looks at you with a smile."

I think about all the times since being declared fit for duty that I've considered retirement. Promotion. Anything but what we'd been doing, anything but take another chance that I would be killed, or Deanna, or that the ship would be destroyed with all of us on board.

"It works now." I glance outside. Stars are visible in the gap between houses. "I had my doubts. She likely had hers, considering my condition. It came very close to not working out at all."

"But."

"She wouldn't give up hope."

"I think Bell has," Will whispers.

"That may be. Have you?"

"Not yet." He sighed heavily. "I don't think so, anyway. I'm still trying."

"I'm not good at advice. I can't tell you anything that would help you, Will -- we have different situations. But if you still have hope, I think it's worth the effort to keep trying."

"You know, if I brought Bell a box of gifts that way, she'd start throwing them at me. I don't know what to do or say with her any more. Deanna's angry at me now, too, because she thinks I wouldn't do the same for Bell. I would, if it would help."

"What do you think might help?"

He snorts, shakes his head, and runs his fingers through his hair. "I have no idea. I guess I assumed talking to Deanna would. I didn't really think about it -- that wasn't why I invited you along. I wanted to see you, maybe because it would give us someone else to talk to who isn't crew, someone we don't work with, friends who would. . . I don't know."

Provide a buffer zone, I think, but leave it unsaid. We're quiet until Will speaks again.

"Why did you agree to come? She's got to be almost ten months."

"One week from her due date, actually. I wanted to be nearer to a hospital. All she cared about was that this was a Betazoid community. This has something to do with having another Daughter of the Fifth House about to arrive. She wanted to be among Betazoids this time, so we are." The increased frequency of calls from Lwaxana over the last few weeks and Deanna's harried looks afterward seemed to indicate a disagreement. I had a few unopened messages from my mother-in-law, as a result of being "too busy" to take her calls to me. I didn't feel up to mediating, and it wasn't my place anyway -- House business was not my business. Deanna had said nothing about Betazed, which had, prior to the Khevlin incident, been where she wanted to give birth. But she jumped at the chance to come to Ithica, which meant Betazoid heritage played a part in her choices, yet something prevented going to the homeworld.

There's a sound in the hall; a door opens, followed by slippered feet scuffing along carpet. Yves stumbles into view, hesitates, and runs to me. "Papa, why Mama angwy at me?"

"What?" Yves' sleepy complaint doesn't make sense. He was in bed. If he'd been in the bedroom with Deanna, we wouldn't have heard the door open.

He tries to climb in my lap, his foot sliding along my shin. I catch him beneath the arms and lift him up. Clinging to the front of my shirt, he snuffles and falls limp.

"A bad dream?" Will asks.

"No, more likely an observation taken personally. Good night."

Yves goes down again without a fuss. In our bedroom, I find Deanna curled up in bed, barely awake, crying. Rather than undress and join her, I sit on the edge of the bed and touch her cheek.

"I feel. . . ." She catches my hand and holds it, kissing my knuckles. "I just feel. I don't understand all of it. Can't sleep."

"What can I do?"

"It's not all mine," she whispers. "It's them, and me, and -- I can't meditate."

"Let's see if heart fire can help you." I don't want her to have another nightmare; perhaps some joint meditation will prevent it. It's difficult at first to connect, but after we do, we lose track of time. Eventually we sleep.

~^~^~^~^~^~

Morning comes too early. I don't want to move. Last night started well and ended miserably -- we played games, chatted, and then I confronted Will. I recall lying awake until Jean came in to comfort me. I should have brought some inhibitor.

My body wants to keep sleeping, but sunlight creeping in through the uncovered top half of the window falls on me first. I listen to the rest of the house, to the snoring from down the hall, and because it's so quiet I hear the soft footfalls.

Our bedroom door was ajar, and now creaks open slowly. John's blond head pokes into the room. He toddles over and looks up at me, leaning on the mattress. He's like any two-year-old, all curiosity and energy, no sense of boundaries.

"Hi." His fingers barely reach my arm.

"Good morning, John. Are you hungry?"

He nods, smiling briefly. His shyness with us is unusual, Bell said yesterday, but it appears he's overcoming it.

"Your mama isn't awake?" I know she is. I also know she's upset already.

John shakes his head and sticks his fingers in his mouth.

It's difficult to move; I'm still tired and I could swear I'd gained more girth in the past two days. But I manage, and notice on my way out that the door at the other end of the hall is closed, explaining his wander into ours. He follows me to the kitchen and clings to my robe while whispering a preference. What a sweet child he is. While I'm replicating some cereal he climbs into a chair and waits. I ask him to count spoonfuls for me. We're on ten when Bell arrives, tying her off-white robe.

"Oh, Deanna. . . ."

"It's all right. I was awake anyway." I smile, and John mirrors it and opens for the spoon after lisping "leven."

"He's counting? Jonathan," she exclaims, dropping to sit on her heels and caressing her son's short blond hair. "What's after eleven?"

John pushes the cereal around his mouth before swallowing. "Twelb."

Why is she so surprised? I reward him with another bite and reach for the cup of berry juice to give him another sip. After taking some, he says, "Firteen."

"You're supposed to count the cereal, but that's all right. Yves, stop hiding."

Yves bursts around the corner. He often makes a game of hiding from me. I can sense his excitement every time. "Can I have yurgut?" He pulls up his drooping pajama pants and runs for the replicator. Fidele follows and stops at his master's shoulder.

"Enunciate for the replicator. Computer, suspend child lockout."

"I'll get -- " Bell begins.

"Thank you, but no," I interrupt as I wipe John's face with a napkin. Bell stares at me as if I've lost my senses.

Yves stands on tiptoe, his hands on the housing of the replicator unit. "Bloo-ber-ee yo-gurt," he says slowly. The bowl forms in a swirl of molecular mist. Since Yves is not tall enough to reach the intentionally-too-high replicator slot, Fidele stands upright with a paw to the wall and takes the tray in his teeth, then brings it to the table. Yves dodges around him and climbs into the chair to my left while Fidele places the tray from the right.

"It's good practice," I explain to Bell. "He needs it."

"Firteen," John whispers for the third time, reaching for the spoon.

"Fifteen," I correct him. He's not hungry any more. "Do you really want more?"

He studies the bowl and looks up at me with his father's blue eyes. At least, I assume that's where he got them. He doesn't really resemble either of his parents; he's a compromise child, a mixture of both, none of his features readily identifiable as like either parent. In Yves' face I'm seeing the beginnings of that twelve-year-old version of Jean-Luc that I remember vividly. I think about Telix, about the men these two little boys will be, and shiver.

The boys finish breakfast. We wash their faces, then send them off to the living room with the dog. Once her son is gone, Bell's face falls into a weary map of her tension.

I say nothing. When I return from the replicator with my own breakfast, she is holding her face in her hands and leaning on the table. While my unborn child wakes and moves about, I drink the thick concoction that's become my morning last resort. I never have an appetite any more.

"Help me, Deanna," she sighs at last. In the background, the boys are counting together, Yves first and John echoing him, solving the mystery of how John suddenly started counting on his own. I can hear the click of plastic blocks, which we'd replicated yesterday for them.

"Nothing I can tell you would make a difference."

Bell peered between her fingers at me. Her brown eyes, normally full of warmth and smiles, were bloodshot. "Then nothing will."

"Pessimism isn't going to help, either."

The kitchen is done in straw-yellow tile with odd floral patterns in green. Very reminiscent of some of my bouts of morning sickness. I suspect that Bell's cousin doesn't spend much time in this house. I have half my drink down, and wish I didn't feel so full.

"How do you do it?" Bell unfolds, crossing her arms across her chest and sitting back. "A career, and you're having another child."

"I do it. I don't think about it." If I did, I would be tired all the time.

"I wish I could understand him."

I don't want to understand anything. "You can't expect perfection. It's not going to get any better unless both of you want it to. You've talked about this with him, I'm assuming."

"Over and over, in excruciating detail. I'm tired of talking." Bell actually sneers, something I've never seen before from her.

"There are times when too much discussion only makes it worse."

Bell blinks, slowly. She can't believe she heard that from me.

"Sometimes it's not even necessary. Behavior speaks much louder than words. Jean-Luc taught me that." I almost go into detail about it, but that would lead to her comparing the two, and I don't believe that would be productive.

"Oh, I know that. Will's behavior has told me a lot about him lately," Bell says sourly. It's a clue that I choose to follow.

"Was there something specific that precipitated this change in your relationship?"

From the anger and despair, there was. Such intensity and focus often comes after a transgression, in fact. "I knew it would come to this." Bell sat back and raised her arms, cupping her head in her hands. "I should have known it would. I suppose I imagined he would change, once we were married. Bet you've heard that one a lot -- cliche of me to think so."

"Bell -- "

"She's nothing like me," Bell blurts out, not wanting to stop now that the door's been opened and the emotions she's fought to contain are escaping. "It figures she'd be another officer."

I'm angry for a moment, then remind myself -- there are two sides to every story. Will has not shown any guilt, and he would. I know that right now, I cannot say this, under the misconception that verifying his faithfulness would solve the problem. Relationships are not mechanical devices with parts that can be replaced. Before this marriage can be repaired, both sides must be heard, and not simply listened to -- there's more to it than that. Of course, the counselor in me must come forth to challenge the fallacy that the only problem lay in Will's behavior.

"Is that all it is?"

My question elicits a stare of disbelief and outrage. "Is that all? What else does it have to be?"

In spite of my desire not to be involved, within the span of a short conversation, I am. I hate Counselor Troi at times, and never more so than when she intrudes on my personal relationships. As if detecting my desperation, Jean-Luc arrives, dressed for our planned activity of the day in shorts and an open shirt. He hesitates long enough to brush my cheek with the backs of his fingers, an odd and distracting way to greet me; his reliance on body language in the past months is one of many new facets of his behavior that I'm still adjusting to, and it surprises Bell. She stares at me as he moves on to the replicator.

"I see the boys have built a wall around the living room. We're trapped," he comments, picking up his coffee and requesting a croissant. The replicator is an older model that only handles one item at a time.

"I hope I didn't wake you." He's a light sleeper; that hasn't changed.

"Not at all." He sits where Yves had been and holds out the croissant for me to tear off the end. It's a long-standing habit for us, dating back to shortly after we'd started to share quarters, and it's reassuring that we're returning to our rituals. "I'm surprised you're up this early. Sleep well?"

"As well as I usually do."

He watches me nibble the bit of pastry to nothing. "Want anything?"

"No, thank you. I'm full."

"Amy?"

Bell's very curious, and I wonder how different we must seem to her since the last time we saw them. "No change. How are you this morning?" Empty filler conversation is an easy diversion.

"It's a bad hair day." He grins, as he usually does when making hair jokes at his own expense, and smooths down his fringe. "Bell, would you like some coffee?"

"I'm sure I look like I need it. But I'll just get some tea, thanks." She does so, then leaves us alone. We wait until her bedroom door closes in the distance. The boys must have gone to the room they share; it's quiet in the living room.

"This isn't exactly what I'd thought it would be," he says quietly.

"Has the *Durant* been in any situations recently?" Jean-Luc would know better than I what was taking place in the fleet at large. Since he's been back on duty, he's spoken with captains and admirals from all over Federation space.

"Nothing to do with the Alliance. Will's been patrolling Romulan borders for a few months, and it's been quiet. He hasn't said anything to you, then?"

"She thinks he's been with someone else."

"And she wishes for a career." Jean-Luc reaches for me, leaning, and I do the same. At least I'm still able to lean to the side. He kisses my hair and lets my head rest on his shoulder. "I don't understand how it could come to this."

{It's nothing we can help, Jean-Luc. It's already gone to bitterness and emotional distancing. If they want to change things, they still can, but. . . .}

I can tell this is making him think too much. We could have so easily succumbed to the circumstances we recently survived; our relationship, and our bond, could have been destroyed. Sitting up just enough, I kiss him once to get his attention, and a second time when I have it. His response is surprise and then self-consciousness. Simultaneously I sense Will's surprise and pull away.

"Are we entertaining you sufficiently?" I ask, glancing up at our audience.

Will rolls his eyes, spins on a heel, and departs. The opening of a door, his too-cheerful greetings, and the boys' responses tell us where he's gone. Yves announces that he wants to play fetch with Fidele, and before long all of them have gone outside. In the hall, I hear a door shutting, and a rush of water through pipes in the wall indicates that Bell is in the bathroom.

"I'm going back to our room," I whisper.

Jean follows without comment. We have a visit to the local park planned, but I need help in getting ready.

When we get to the park, which is just a short walk from the house, it's full of humans and Betazoids playing games and lounging on the green. Many are not wearing clothing. Will grins and glances at Jean-Luc, who is not in the least perturbed. Old perceptions die hard. Will still thinks nudity in general is what disturbed our captain, back when a Betazoid wedding might be performed aboard our ship; I've since learned that it had more to do with my mother's presence.

We wander along the shore of a lake until Bell selects a flat area in the grass, half-shaded by some overhanging tree limbs. Will spreads a blanket and Bell gives the children instructions, while Jean opens a chair and watches me until I'm settled in it.

Before long, I'm alone. Jean doesn't go far, just wanders along the shore with Will. Yves wants to go see a balloon man up near the walkway at the top of the slope. Bell goes with him and takes John. In the warm sun, I close my eyes and revel in having nothing to do and no one to worry about.

"Hello."

I open my eyes. It takes a moment to recognize that the greeting was in Betazoid, and partially telepathic. There's a woman standing not far away from me. When I don't discourage her, she approaches; she's thin, small-breasted, completely naked but for the delicate blue tattoos underlining her breasts, tracing her waist and hips, and spiraling down around her thighs -- a "clever" dancer, or so the Betazoid word for her occupation translates into Standard.

She raises an eyebrow, and we communicate briefly and wordlessly. It's been a long time since I've done this. I can only manage if the other Betazoid is willing to do most of the work; my ability to initiate telepathic collaboration is so limited. In moments I know of four midwives and am assured that any one of them would be forewarned and ready to come to my aid, if I need help. I am also informed of Tei's comm code, Tei's address, and Tei's family unit, and Tei is now aware of mine. And I know that she approached me because she saw a similarity between us -- she, like me, has hajira. Her husband, Kam, is participating in a concert on the other side of the park.

Tei traces a symbol of blessing on my abdomen, her fingernail scraping the pale green dress I'm wearing. Then someone else arrives, then another -- I am soon surrounded by Betazoids, women and men alike, all curious and interested in the newcomer. We are a social people, and in a smaller town it's not uncommon for everyone to literally know everyone else. In seconds they all know me, and I know them.

Ranj tugs my hand, and El helps me to my feet. They wish to perform some ritual of blessing, more involved than what Tei has done. I'm surrounded by performing artists who also ascribe to some of the old superstitions. I see nothing wrong with it. Tei chats with two others about pregnancy as she helps El remove my dress. El folds it neatly and places it in the chair. Someone runs away to a picnic shelter and returns with a box.

"What's this?" Jean-Luc and Will have returned. Jean knows I am not afraid, which quells his anxiety, but Will is alarmed.

All the Betazoids stop and look at my husband. "Hajira epan," El announces, gesturing with her graceful dancer's mannerisms. It's an invitation.

"They want to bless the baby," I tell them in Standard, mostly for Will's sake. "It's not harmful, and it feels wonderful to be surrounded by this much goodwill. They're a troupe of clever dancers."

"We would include you in the ritual," Tei says, inclining her head toward Jean-Luc. Will frowns; he never knew much Betazoid. Jean-Luc knows enough to get the gist of it. He glances at me, dubious and probing to determine how important this is to me, whether it's worth overcoming his anxiety over any Betazoid ritual.

 

Tei smiles at my directive. I'm not going to force him beyond what we've already explained to Yves; Betazoids sometimes take off clothes, humans are more private. It's an agreement we've come to -- exposing the children to both cultures, yet drawing a boundary between shipboard behavior and homeworld activities, was the goal.

Tei dips her fingertips into the box her sister Erre has brought and dances to Jean, tracing the contours of his head and leaving blue and green lines. Meanwhile, the artist of the group is making a more intricate pattern in red on me. Other hands work on my back.

I raise my arms high, stretching, and more hands tug the wire spiral that holds my hair. comes the question, responding to the colors of the hair spiral. Gentle fingers separate and begin to braid my hair.

My status within the house is conferred by a sensation rather than a word. Purple is added to the assortment of colors being painted on my skin.

Will stands back, watching and mumbling an explanation to Bell, who's returned with balloons, children and dog. Jean presses forward through the semi-nude and nude Betazoids, looking like he's been playing with Yves' finger paints.

"They're leaving soon, right?"

Everyone laughs, except me -- I smile because he is mostly serious and the best way to tease him is to smile in such a way that he can't figure out if I'm agreeing, if I'm happy to see him, or if I'm laughing at him. Most Betazoids are quite aware of human preferences, and these can sense well enough the discomfort he's feeling.

The corner of his mouth twitches; he can't figure out whether to smile, or scowl. He watches Tei with raised eyebrow as she adds a finishing touch to my kneecap. Erre leans over my shoulder, her tumult of black curls tickling my shoulder, and whispers a provocative suggestion to him. She's teasing, of course, but as is often the case, there's something more behind it.

"No, thank you." The response in Betazoid delights our new friends. Jean turns away from her to meet the eyes of Kam, who has arrived at a run. Tei straightens, and for the first time I see what others have seen in us. Hajira is unmistakable. There's a glow, not of visible light but of emotional energy. As I bring Jean-Luc into closer contact through the bond so he can sense it too, I realize that the others are dancing on the edges of my awareness, offering, and I draw on what they offer.

In an intense moment it's over -- but it gives him what I've had difficulty translating for him since we've been together. His head snaps up, his eyes widen, and I know that the clarity and understanding those seconds of mind-to-mind contact, facilitated by a group of humming, dancing Betazoids now in the rapture of their ritual all around us, will be with him for a long time. Unlike the K'korll's overwhelming alienness, Betazoid telepathy is powerful yet adaptable to human thought. This is nothing like my mother's undisciplined nonsense; clever dancers aspire to a higher level of mental discipline than the average Betazoid. Part of their performance is on the mental plane.

As the group dances and leaps away across the grass, laughing and waving to us, Jean laughs and drops to the ground, sitting on the edge of the blanket.

"That was interesting," Bell remarks. She watches the dancers jump up to stand in each other's hands, tumble across the lawn, and leap past one another in eerie synchronization. In her arms, John wiggles and whimpers to be put down. Yves breaks free of Will's hand and runs to me.

"Clever dancers are not unlike religious zealots. They pursue their art with that sort of fervor." I sit slowly, putting an arm around Yves as he leans over the arm of the chair. He touches the swirls of green and red on my belly. "We'll paint when we get back to the house."

"What's dat?" He traces an intricate design made up of red marks left by the end of a fingernail, painted around my navel.

"That's a Betazoid symbol. It means they want the baby to be healthy."

Yves leans close to listen to Amy while I comb his soft hair with my fingers. Sometimes, when he's calm and curious and all I can see is the top of his head, it reminds me of another child of mine who had my hair, and my heart hurts with the brief yet undiminished pain of missing a lost child. Ian's memory lingers, and always will.

"Yves," Jean summons quietly. Our son turns and launches himself into Papa's arms for the offered hug. Jean looks up at me with serious eyes; he knew what I felt. There's a lingering closeness after the intense encounter we just had.

"Clever dancers," Will echoes, sitting cross-legged on the blanket and reaching for the box of food. "I remember seeing some when I was on Betazed. They're not a religious group."

"Not in the sense of worshiping a deity. They're devoted to mental and physical discipline and art." The paint is drying on my skin. I contemplate the lake. Jean, who has distracted Yves and John by throwing a stick for Fidele and telling them to play with the dog, reaches for John's bag. Bell is confused until he finds the sealed canister of towelettes and asks if he can borrow.

I decide I'd rather walk into the lake. The paint is water-soluble and organic, and since this is a public park and the lake is meant for swimming, I know the water's clean. The gentle slope into deeper water is deceptively natural-looking; instead of silt, weeds and rocks, there's an aggregate that's designed to give enough traction without being rough enough to hurt bare feet.

The water's warm. I don't mind the reprieve from gravity, either; I float for a while, balancing on my toes in water up to my neck. There are others in the lake, on the other shore, but far enough away that only the sound and slight rippling carries across to me. Happy cries from children, responses from parents, and laughing are all quite welcome, as are the emotions accompanying them.

Some of the cries are from Yves, who stripped to underpants and prances into the shallows and back, repeatedly. He has had swimming lessons but he's never seen a lake like this. I call to him and he leaps, belly-flops, and pops up laughing and splashing. Jean-Luc stands at the ready on the shore as our son wriggles and paddles through the water to me.

We touch hands and he treads water, sinking under briefly before pushing closer and clinging to my neck. "Mama, Papa won' get in," he sputters, spraying water from his lips into my face.

"Go back to Papa."

He launches himself clumsily, flailing and kicking my shoulder by accident. When he reaches shore, he stands, catching his waterlogged shorts before they can fall, and beams up at his father. I wish I had a way of taking a picture.

Except, as I start to walk in, I notice what our friends are doing. Bell has John, who wriggles and whines to go in the water. Will reclines on the blanket nearby, eating a piece of fruit and watching me.

I would not want a picture of that expression.

I'll have to talk to him.

~^~^~^~^~^~

After our return from the park, Deanna fell asleep in the living room in one of the reclining chairs, so we've ushered the kids into their bedroom to play with Fidele on the alert and moved our conversation into the kitchen. It's not a very interesting conversation, and it's obvious that Will and Bell are both trying too hard to be polite to one another. After a while I decide to take a walk.

This town is a fairly typical example of a small town on any planet -- it's friendly, with a contingent of natives who watch newcomers with interest. I notice people watching me from windows and yards. Most are Betazoid, judging from the way they're dressed. I see a couple of people who smile and nod; I think I recognize them from the park. Deanna makes friends so easily. I always had friends, but never such immediate connection with people. My walk takes me out to the edge of town, where the yards are increasingly larger and eventually houses become estates, and I turn back. On my way I sense distant anxiety, which increases as I walk faster and faster in reaction to it. Deanna is upset about something, but in a vague way that I recognize -- she is dreaming, I think, as she has so many times in the past couple of months.

My focus turns inward; I don't see anyone or anything, once within three blocks of the house. Her anxiety draws me. It's all a blur, and then I am on the top step and inside. Yves wraps himself around my leg the instant I'm in the door.

"Moo swing? Papa?" He's begging for it to be that familiar thing, a change of mood which will go away quickly. Deanna has curled up in the chair and is shaking with sobs.

"Go play with Fidele." I note with some relief that the dog is sitting upright in the hall, paying more attention to Yves than his mother. If there were physical symptoms involved, the android would be raising the alarm. Yves looks at his mother, takes a few steps, glances at me, and runs to hug the dog. I could spend more time comforting him, I suppose, but helping Deanna will help him more quickly.

I ignore Bell, who is saying something about not even knowing she was awake yet, and stare at Will, who is standing over the chair with his hands at his sides, his stance familiar -- wanting to do something but unable to determine what that should be, he waits at the ready. When I reach the chair, Deanna moans. Her hair, still drying after the swim at the park, is like a blanket of ropes over her face and shoulder. She's still in her robe and the pair of socks she borrowed from me.

I drop to one knee slowly. She flinches at my touch, then lets me push her hair back and touch her face. Her eyelids are puffy; her frown pinches her features. When my hand closes over her shoulder she opens her eyes, which exposes the misery I already know she feels. If she were truly awake there would be more awareness and a quick gathering of control, an internal check and an effort to contain what she will not allow to spill out when conscious.

"Another bad dream?" I murmur.

She closes her eyes when my thumb brushes her temple and slips along her scalp. A brief head massage seems to help. She lets me work down her neck with my fingertips, winces, and curls in on herself more than she had been, and I notice Will is hovering more perceptibly than before. Calmly, I catch his eye and glare. He backs away.

"Cygne," I whisper. It seems to trigger something -- she frowns again. Then, as more tears flow, she says brokenly, "I don't know if I can do this."

I've heard this refrain before. "Do what?"

"I shouldn't -- how will I go back to work? What if -- if -- They told me you would never -- alone and -- and the admiral, and you were so. . . ."

I understand, despite the unfinished thoughts and choking sobs. I have had the entire conversation with her before, in bits and pieces while awake and also in instances similar to this. In her dream state, she's shortened it to sentence fragments. "Do you want me to quit?"

Her fingers close on mine. "No-ooo," she wails. Hauling herself closer to me, nearly breaking my hand in the process, she almost falls out of the chair putting her arm around me. The only thing I can do is slide closer and bear her weight while she cries. When I guess she has begun to drift, that although she still breathes roughly and makes soft plaintive noises she has begun to sleep deeply once more, I push gently until she's in the chair again.

Yves has returned. When I put my hand on his head, he automatically leans against me, moving into the curve of my arm. "Mood swing," I tell him.

"Okay." He pulls away, tugging at my sleeve. "Come pway!"

"In a minute. Why don't you take Fidele outside with the ball?"

He does so, and the instant the door closes behind him Bell crosses her arms and steps toward me. "What is going on? Is there anything I can do?"

"No, but thank you." I glance at Will, who has obviously said nothing to Bell about what I told him. Will glances at the floor. "We've been through a lot recently, Bell," I continue, meeting her eyes. "It's been worse. We're fine."

One of Bell's carefully-shaped eyebrows climbed higher. "I'm sorry, cher, but I cannot believe that. She is not sleeping well."

I glance back at Deanna. "No. Neither am I."

Bell closes her mouth. For a bit, we are all looking at the floor, and behind me Deanna snores softly. I turn and catch sight of the clock I'd purchased, and sigh.

"Antiques," I murmur.

Bell's eyebrows come together and her lips purse. "Pardon?"

"I've always been fascinated by relics of the past and what they tell us about the people who left them. Wondered what people will remember, if anything at all, about me." I wander to the shelf and turn the minute hand of the clock slowly. "I used to think Starfleet would be the way to be remembered."

"Jean-Luc," Will begins, stepping forward. "Please."

I know what he means. No lectures, no lessons. I look him in the eye. "It's not so important to me any more. I almost died, and it wasn't the first time. Nor will it be the last. It took us apart, between my injuries and what she had to do in my absence. We're still putting ourselves back together. I'm sorry that our difficulties are so distracting and worrisome. Perhaps we shouldn't have come."

"No," Bell exclaims, rushing to put a hand on my shoulder. "Please. I only wish we had known -- "

"What would you have done differently if you had?" I catch her hand and hold it. "None of us are at our best. All we can do is accept that and go on."

She glances at her husband and nods, then meets my eyes again. "Yes, I suppose so. It's just alarming -- you both seem so quiet and solemn, and yet you suddenly smile or laugh. I'm not used to it. And then she. . . ."

"She doesn't know about the nightmares." I pause, assess Deanna's state of consciousness -- I can sense little, and it's so diffuse and vague I know she is asleep -- and choose my words carefully. "She would be distressed to know about them, since she continues to be so careful of me. She's not sure I'm completely recovered mentally."

Bell's eyes widen. "You aren't the same. But you're not abnormal."

"I am not the same, and I'm not completely recovered. Mostly recovered, perhaps." I notice Will's frown. "But as I told you, I'm fine. All things considered. So is she."

Bell nods. "I'm going to the market. I'd like to cook tonight. Do you have any preferences?"

"Surprise us. I'm sure anything you make would be wonderful."

"I'll go with you," Will says, drawing a surprised look from her. He only smiles. She returns it, hers a puzzled acceptance, and squeezes my hand before heading for the door.

After they are gone, I stand in silence, and hear a tick from the clock. My idle prodding seems to have resurrected it somewhat. The minute hand jerks forward, back, forward, then ceases and silence falls again. Deanna sighs. By the time I reach her, she's sitting up.

"Jean?" Blinking, she swings her legs left and feints. I provide a hand and pull slowly, until she's gotten the chair in the upright position and her feet on the floor. The robe has gapped; I touch her smooth, bulging belly and wonder again that her body can endure bearing such a burden. Now that she's awake, the odd sensation that's lingered since the park returns -- it's as though her body has become an extension of mine. I can feel, as if from faraway, her thirst and the uncomfortable ache of her lower back.

"I'll get you something to drink." I return from the replicator with a glass and a hot pad. While she drinks, I hold the pad against her.

"You'll spoil me," she whispers, sliding her arms around my shoulders. "Where are they?"

"Went to the market."

"Help me get some clothes on?"

"I can do that." I'm not going to tell her about the nightmares; I've avoided it for weeks. That can wait for later, after the baby's born and we've reached a level of comfort with our lives.

~^~^~^~^~^~

I find Will much later, after the children have been exiled to their room for the night. Hopefully they'll sleep soon. Fidele almost follows me, still obeying the directive to stay with me when not with Yves, but I ask him to join the children and tell them a story.

Will is outside, standing in the middle of the yard. He doesn't look at me but he knows I'm here. The moonlight is bright enough for me to make out his pensive expression. He's thinking and as I approach he becomes angry.

"You're angry at me, now."

"I've always been able to talk to you -- then suddenly you fall for Jean-Luc, and I haven't been able to have a decent conversation with you since." That isn't completely accurate, but I don't contradict him.

"And the bitterness you felt over my abandonment of you continues."

"That's not -- "

"I know. Your point was that you miss having me to talk to, as a friend. I'm sensitive, Will, and I'm sorry I'm snapping at you." Maybe I enjoy it, though. Maybe it's fun to be expressive as I want to be, given the excuse of recovery and advanced pregnancy. Or perhaps his issues are not something I need to deal with right now, I've told him that once so far, and this is not a good time for him to decide I'm part of his solution.

"And I suppose I'm still a little bitter, but I can see why you wouldn't want to deal with me. You have your own problems." The mild sarcasm annoys more than his previous assumption that I had none.

"Are we going to have this disagreement again, or are you going to tell me what's really going on, in the present? I know your relationship with Bell is. . . strained." I put my hands behind my back and stare at the rooftops of the houses across the street.

He's silent. Scratching his three-day-old beard, he stares at the grass. Finally he replies, "She thinks I slept with someone else."

His emotions are muddled, but as I thought before, no guilt. "What's her name?"

That focuses him -- he's angry again, only more so. "The alleged affair supposedly took place three months ago. She was assistant to an admiral we were transporting. She was a fascinating woman, but nothing happened."

"Her name?"

"It doesn't matter!" A pause, while he comes to his own realization of what this much protest seems to indicate. "Karen."

"Are you afraid I'll know who she is?"

"Karen Hertzberger," he replies, surrendering. I wanted him to say it so I could sense any emotion associated with it, but there's nothing, other than the misery and vague irritation.

"Hertzberger," I echo, amazed at the never-ending variety of human surnames. "Dark hair, dark eyes. Not as tall as you."

"You know her." Now he's feeling totally defeated. Still angry, though in a simmering way.

"I reminded you of her today at the lake." That was a hypothesis confirmed by his jolt of surprise. It explained the look, and its accompanying mixtures of sadness and anxiety. "But I know you didn't have an affair with her. What did she provide for you that's missing?"

For a moment he does nothing, other than stare into the night sky and feel what he hasn't since I arrived -- relief, appreciation, love. He turns his head, then reaches for me. It's been a long time since he's hugged me this way. He's wearing a thick scratchy shirt and my face presses into his shoulder. I return the hug awkwardly, and Amy kicks -- she doesn't like being squeezed like this.

As Will steps back, Jean comes outside and stands on the porch. He's concerned, of course, but not upset by the embrace he's seen.

"Sorry. Are you. . . ."

"I'm fine, Will. Can you answer the question, or do you not know?"

"Karen listened to me, I guess. I feel like I'm not part of Bell's life any more. She left the ship for six months for that position in the hospital on Mars, and then after six months with me she took the other position on Rigel -- I tried to talk to her about our family, what's best for John, and she gets angry because I'm not acknowledging her career as important. Except that's not what I'm trying to do. Not acknowledge her, I mean. I don't know what to do." He puts his hands on his head and leans back, stretching, probably trying to ease sore back muscles.

I'm reminded of Earth, suddenly, and not the present one, but the past -- standing outside the ramshackle open-air bar, listening to Zefram sing along drunkenly with his jukebox. It was the night before I ended up drunk and disorderly, and Will was having a nostalgic fit of space-going fervor. The time, the place, the people, the Phoenix, reminded us of why we did what we did, went where no one else had ever been, did the less-than-pleasant things in the name of defending the Federation. It reminded me of the young man I'd known, the optimistic and romantic lieutenant who'd run off into the galaxy and left me to finish my degree in psychology in the robotic way of the broken-hearted.

In the here and now, Will Riker is married, is older with longer hair shot through with gray, has a child and a wife who thinks he has cheated on her, and still does not understand what to do when a woman loses her faith in him. Granted, there haven't been so many he's been with long enough that it happened more than twice. He's staring at the stars as if he can't remember why he ever bothered to go out there in the first place, and hurting.

"It's a difficult situation but it's not impossible to work things out."

"I realize, but it's harder when she doesn't even believe me when I tell her Karen and I just talked about Starfleet and other officers."

"But you didn't just talk," I say without thinking, "you made a connection, and Bell saw that -- there's nothing wrong with it, on the face of things, but when there's a lack of connection with Bell, she perceives it for what it is, a threat to her marriage."

Will tenses and struggles with my statement. Behind me, Jean-Luc wonders what's going on, patiently waits to find out, or not, and wants to go to sleep. He's tired and probably intended to say good-night, his usual cover for checking in with his immensely-pregnant wife to determine if she showed any signs of imminent childbirth, or foot cramps, or food cravings, or anything else he understood as his responsibility to rectify. What is it that turns a solitary officer like Jean into a devoted family man? That turns a friendly, warm, personable officer like Will into a confused and inadequate family man? Where in their shared experiences did the progression from one to the other begin? Anyone who had known Will and Jean twenty years before would have guessed the former would be the better choice of husband.

I do not understand this, any more than I understand how I fell in love with either of them. I can blame falling for Will on being young and naive, reckless, driven by emotions and hormones and little else. I can only guess what it was that made Jean-Luc so appealing. Sometimes I think about it, but I really don't care to know. It matters more to me that I am with him and will be for however much time we are granted.

And currently, there are pertinent questions that remain to be asked about someone else's relationship. Since Will wants help, I should try. He is a good friend. I do not have to be soft about it, however, and since he weathered the last salvo so well, I issue another. "Is Karen enough to make you want to cheat on your wife?"

Will actually gapes at me now. "Deanna!"

"I didn't think so. The trouble is not that Bell thinks you cheated. Neither of you addressed a deficit of some sort in your relationship, then you showed some interest in Karen. I don't believe Bell would have paid attention to it otherwise. While I'm not certain how to correct Bell's mistaken theories, I am certain you're capable of figuring out what to do about the situation."

When I start to turn away, he catches my arm. "Dee -- "

"Not your counselor. And the tuck-in patrol is waiting for me. I suggest punching up number two fifty-nine on the replicator and using it, if you want a quick way to begin to improve the situation. After you admit to Bell that she does have cause for concern, apologize, and perhaps express your own honest concerns rather than attempting to rely on technical innocence as a defense." I turn away before he can respond. Long ago, I reconciled myself as a counselor to unfinished business -- letting clients find their solutions, whether in session or out. I'd pushed him, challenged him, and whether I was right or wrong in assuming he'd clung to his self-righteousness didn't matter. Let it be a catalyst, or a message to him that I was not there to solve his problem for him. Either way, I'm done for the night.

Jean meets me on the top stair. Nearby, in the pale moonlight, the wind chime he bought whispers a soft chord. His hand finds its place in the small of my back as he falls in step and follows me inside. Bell slows us down in the hall; she backs out of the boys' room silently and closes the door before seeing us. Startled, she stares for a few seconds.

"Good night," I whisper as I push past. Both children are asleep. I sense Bell's surprise recede and her attention shift elsewhere as the bedroom door closes behind Jean. The soft click of the lock tells me he's not going to allow another child to pop in unannounced.

"What's two fifty-nine?"

"I left our isolinear module full of replicator recipes in the slot."

"Ah. The massage oil." Jean pulls his shirt off and tosses it toward the far corner. "You think that will help?"

"If he uses it in the proper order, maybe. Apology, explanation, massage. . . ." I pull at the sadly-rumpled and stained dress I've been wearing, frustrated by my weariness. In spite of the nap after lunch, I'm still tired, and my lower back is throbbing.

Jean comes to me and guides the dress over my head. He flicks a bit of paint from my shoulder. "Will a massage help you?"

"It would."

He goes for oil, and I pull down the covers on the bed. I don't like the soft mattress but I can't be choosy. The bed's smaller than I'm used to, but given his habit of finding ways of getting tangled up with me while we're asleep, it's not a problem. When he returns and locks the door, he's smiling.

"You should have seen Will. Standing in the kitchen holding one of these." Jean waves the green, pear-shaped glass decanter, a Betazoid design and full of distilled nut oil. "He asked what it was."

I can sense Will's disbelief well enough. "I hope he takes my suggestion. It's hard to harbor a grudge against someone with such good hands."

The remark reminds Jean that I had firsthand knowledge of Will's hands, and I immediately regret it, but it's done. I look at the floor, shaking my head. But Jean touches my arm as he sits with me, the bottle cradled in his other hand.

"He upset you at the lake."

"I reminded him of Karen."

A moment, and he puts it together. "Not an affair, but almost?"

"It's nothing that wouldn't happen to any man -- some do it without realizing what they're doing until they're propositioned. But he didn't do anything wrong, and it obviously highlighted something that was already missing." My eyes ache. I'm overtired, and rub my brow with my palm. Jean breaks the tip from the top of the jar and the nose-tingling fragrance of nut oil fills the air.

He orders the lights dimmed, and when nothing happens, mutters a curse and goes to the switch near the door. I reach for the lamp at the bedside and turn it on as the overhead light goes out.

"Such synchronization," he says, gesturing for me to assume the position.

I curl on my side. He stands over me for a moment, considering the best approach, and suddenly a familiar band of pressure wraps around me. There's a scratching and clawing at the door seconds later. Jean, muttering, goes to check, and Fidele forces his head through the crack and squirms into the room. He sits and stares into my face.

"He's detected something." Jean's voice cracks slightly.

"Go stay with Yves now," I instruct the dog. Obedient as ever, he strides out calmly. "I didn't really need the warning."

"Should we -- I could call the -- "

"No. Close the door. I could still use the massage."

Excited, he returns to the bed after engaging the lock. "You're sure?"

"It's too early. We'll know when it's time to call someone." Unless someone arrives before we call -- the people we met in the park all live near it, and it's just down the street. All it will take is a single person sensing my labor pains, and a consensus would be reached and a midwife dispatched.

Jean's not certain about touching me. His massage is too tentative, though he works harder at my back when I complain. He frequently runs a hand over Amy, and when he actually feels a contraction against his palm, he stops.

"Cygne?"

I sit up slowly. He's so wound up in panic that it's counteracting the massage. "Hold me, and we'll meditate."

The bond is there, and strong, and he draws upon my calm. And then we are at peace in a way that has eluded us for months, united in the joy of the birth of our daughter -- this feels like a victory for us. There is no ship, no crisis, no possibility of a red alert. Bell is a doctor, and there are Betazoids who know us in the vicinity.

Jean is alarmed only when the contractions are stronger; the pain is intense, but brief as I know it will be, and still not as bad as it will get. By this time, we are so connected that he can sense the queries of someone Betazoid. He gets my robe for me. I'm walking around the room when the door chime echoes through the house. Moments later, there's a tap at our door. I haven't paid much attention to anything but Jean-Luc and Amy, but it's easy enough to see when Jean opens the door that Will had indeed taken my advice and it had been well-received; he smells like he's taking a bath in the oil, and his hair's mussed.

"You called a midwife?" he blurts.

"Not technically." El pushes past him into the room. She wears pale rust-colored robes, quite proper for a midwife of her background. The combination of clever dancer and midwife results in a more ritualistic procedure than usual. She places a shallow bowl on the floor and waves her hands over it, then lights the contents.

"It's a Betazoid ceremony," Jean-Luc explains, lacking the equivalent of the name in Standard. Probably also in Betazoid, come to think of it. "We're in labor."

Before Will can comment on the pronoun disagreement, El pushes him out. "Tend the children," she commands. "And I will need privacy."

I hear Bell's voice, but can't understand what she's saying. No matter. Let them find their own compromises on who will do what. Another contraction grips me, and Jean's back to hover and let me crush his fingers.

~^~^~^~^~^~

It took six hours to deliver, and would have taken longer if not for the coaching of El. The elation I felt in the beginning is slow to return.

I knew real childbirth would be nothing like the scenarios we were put through in basic training; when I was at the Academy, we didn't even have access to holodecks. I've never been confronted with an actual birth, let alone one for which I was partly responsible.

Deanna is asleep, a state that I envy. I'm in the lone chair in the corner of our bedroom with Amy in my arms. She's wrinkled, misshapen, curled in on herself, and nothing like I remembered Yves being. Of course, I hadn't seen Yves right away -- it had taken a week and a half to resolve the crisis in the Briar Patch and rendezvous with Guinan. Thinking about that now, in light of what we've just been through, I almost feel guilty, until I remember she'd not completed labor with Yves; he had been transported out.

This baby, our daughter, looks like an alien vegetable. All her hair stands straight up and her skull is nearly pointed. She blinks once in a while, and it's then that I see we've managed to have a little Betazoid-eyed baby with sparse, brown wisps of hair on top.

El sits cross-legged, crooning unknown words and swaying over her bowls of incense. She ordered everyone around, solicited Bell's help at a critical point as the baby crowned, and when Amy finally slithered out into Bell's hands, called out loudly to alert the rest of the household. That brought Will and Yves into the room. Yves, who spent the night being cranky and tired but unable to sleep for more than ten minutes at a time, had stared at Amy in horror until El put an arm around him and mumbled an explanation. I wondered if she hadn't used telepathy in soothing him.

Now, two hours later, I am the only one other than El who is not sleeping. Between witnessing the birth, the chaos shortly after, the cleaning up, and the baby herself, I cannot stop the racing thoughts and the turmoil in my heart. I want to be happy, I am happy, overjoyed to have this daughter of mine. But I am overwhelmed by what Deanna experienced. Bell claims that it was a short labor, an easy birth. I can't believe it.

"You should be resting," El says. I open my eyes and realize only then I'd shut them. She holds out her arms and I place Amy in them.

"I don't know if I can."

She pushes my shoulder, forcing me back into the softness of silky upholstery. "You will rest. I have something to tell you. Both of you." Smiling down at the baby, she balances on the balls of her feet and sits on her heels, her robe falling into loose folds around her. "Amia, I will tell you a story of your parents."

She doesn't know us. We've only just met and unless Deanna did something telepathically I'm certain El knows nothing of our story. I'm surprised, but she glances at me with a knowing smile and ignores my staring.

"I will tell you a story of our past," she continues. "A true story that has been told often. Tena, a daughter of a House, lacked a husband. She had suitors and lovers, she loved, but she would discover each time that her heart had not found its home.

"She left her House and family to go out in the world. With her she took trusted servants, especially one man whose father and father's father had served the House. She had known Jenon all her life and knew he would serve her well. Vowing never to return until she found her heart's home, Tena passed through her province into the next, and then the next, visiting each in turn and meeting all manner of people. She visited House and hovel, field and township, with Jenon and the other four servants at her back.

"There came a day, many years later, when she stumbled into a place she had been before. She recognized the town as her own home -- her House was not far away. By this time, only Jenon remained with her; the others had begged to be released to go home to their own families and she had allowed it. She stood in the market and watched children she had known, now grown and having children, buying and selling in the market. She felt suddenly very old, exhausted and hopeless.

"Tena passed through her town, and when no one recognized her, she continued to stumble on. Jenon ran ahead to the House, believing she was going there, but although she was on the same road, she did not go home. At the crossroads she went west.

"At last, she stumbled to the very top of a hill, and stood on a cliff overlooking the sea. She had taken the path to the sands far below many times as a child and spent many happy hours playing there. She looked down through tears at the white ribbon of the surf, the deep waters of the ocean, and thought about her long journey. Even though she had gone around the world, she had found no one.

"Despair overcame her. She wrenched her heart from her chest and threw it away from her, falling to the ground to die. She had been gone so long that everything had changed, and still she had found no home for her heart; she could not bear to go one more step alone.

"At the same time, Jenon had realized that she had not followed him, and retraced the path to find her. He arrived on the cliff in time to see her fling away her heart. As it flew away on the wind, he ran to retrieve it. He found it in the sand, just before it was washed away forever into the ocean.

"He brought it back to Tena. When she opened her eyes, she found her heart beating with new vigor and Jenon kneeling beside her, and she discovered that throughout her travels, she had always had what she sought, standing at her back, and if she had only turned around she would have seen clearly."

El paused, loosening then tucking the blanket around Amy. "But maybe she might not have seen, if she had. Because sometimes it is the journey that shapes us into what we must be -- we are all potential, Amia. We are all not yet what we will be. And once we have become, we begin again to become someone else. Would Jenon have been her heart's home, if he had not gone on the journey? Would her heart have been ready to be given, if not for the journey?"

I had learned enough about Betazoid custom to know the story would end there, with a question. Betazoid stories are often meant to cause one to ask questions, or cause reflection. El's certainly did that.

"Thank you for your help, El. You've been invaluable."

"It is my pleasure." She rises, brings Amy, places her in my arms, and stands back to appraise me. "There has been much sorrow in your lives. It remains heavy on both of you. This should be a joyful time for your family."

"Yes." I don't have the energy for a rebuttal.

El tilts her head. "I will return this evening to help, if it is needed."

"You are too generous." I had already offered payment, which she had refused as if offended.

"You are too self-sufficient. It is what a community is for -- you were in need of my help. I could spend the time."

"Thank you." There is nothing else I can say. She smiles, sensing my sincerity, and gathers up her things.

When she leaves, I notice Deanna has stopped snoring. Had she heard the entire story? It sounded like ours, in some respects, and now that El is gone I think about the look on Deanna's face when I first found her in despair at a table in the ship's lounge. We have been together almost six years. Our time together has almost been curtailed a few times, but the rest has been happy. I wish there had been something more I could have done, but the K'korll stole months of my life, when all is said and done, though perhaps I should regard that as the price I paid to stay alive. Deanna claims that they did as well as they could with an alien they had never seen before. But when I see how low my condition brought her, it's difficult to be positive about it.

She rolls over and peers at me. "I thought of that story," she says quietly, verifying my hunch. "When you found me that evening in Ten Forward. She told it in Standard. The original is slightly different."

In my arm, the baby makes a mewing sound. I touch her cheek, so small it nearly vanishes under my thumb. "In what way?"

"Humans speak of the heart when they are talking about love. Betazoids believe it's nothing to do with a physical organ -- we need no metaphors for it. It's more similar to the human concept of the soul; it's spiritual, abstract, and almost holy. When El speaks of tearing out the heart, in the Betazoid it would be equivalent to willing oneself into insanity and death."

"*And* death?"

"One of the prices of having more control over one's own mind." Deanna winces as she shifts position beneath the blanket. "Losing control of the mind results in physiological reactions leading to the eventual death of the person. We can also think ourselves to death, like the Vulcans."

My mouth is dry. "Was that what you were doing, then? When I found you in Ten Forward you were -- "

"Jean."

"She said it was our story."

We've been sitting in what little light filtered through the curtains. When she turns on the lamp near the bed, she blinks and squints. Sitting up, moving like an old woman, she winces and gradually stands up.

"I can't deny the similarities, but it's a very old story, of which there are many versions. As she told it, it's the beginning of a story of hajira. That's likely all she meant."

This feels like it could be a disagreement. I don't even want to talk about it anymore -- I'm certain she's downplaying her former condition to reassure me. "I wish you would go back to bed."

Deanna makes it to my chair and stands over me. The night shirt is a plain white shift, hip-length, that I'd replicated for her after she'd showered. Already, milk stains dot the front; for as long as she decides to breast-feed, she will experience leakage. Right now she is as sexually unappealing as I have never found her, her face still a mask of weariness, her body sore, her energy gone. Her hair escapes the braid El had made. She'll be able to sit without extra cushioning thanks to Bell's regenerator but she's done nothing yet about strained muscles elsewhere. She walks as if every movement were painful.

And yet, as she holds out a cupped hand to me, she smiles. It doesn't do anything to erase the exhaustion but it does light up her eyes. I try to understand, and it takes too long to make the connection, but when I realize she's acting out the gift of her heart to me, I cup my hand over hers.

"Thank you," she whispers. Tears tremble down her cheeks.

I can't speak. I should be thanking her. But she senses that and takes my hand.

"Come to bed. We'll put her between us."

The routine is familiar. The light is put out. Facing each other, we lay with the baby between us, all of us on top of the covers. I put my palm over Amy's stomach and as my eyelids close I feel her hand over mine.

I'd heard somewhere that happiness in marriage comes not by staying in love, but by falling in love over and over again. Though I have been dubious about this as the only route to wedded bliss, I've discovered that it is in fact possible to fall in love again, with the same woman. Sometimes within weeks of the last time.

She's soon asleep, leaving me awake and content. There have been many nights over the past months that I've lain awake listening to her breathe, but this is the first night since my return from K'korll that I do so while awash in peace and contentment.

It's only much later, after sunrise, when the baby fussing awakens me and disturbs Deanna, that I remember the story, Deanna's dismissal, and I experience further difficulty with remaining focused on the present. Had she been so hopeless? What if I had not searched her out in Ten Forward? Was I really her savior as El implied? I cannot help but think of her as mine. My life is more fulfilling now in ways I could not have imagined, when I was only an officer set on a career-oriented path. Her presence in my life has been a gift, or so I've always thought. This new perspective makes me remember things I have not thought about in some time -- her unhappiness, her uncertainty regarding our future together, how my own optimism had blinded me to certain facets of myself and of her.

As I hold Amy and wait for Deanna to finish waking up, I decide that the issue is likely to cause more difficulties if I pursue it further, and resolve to let it go. We have ridden along the edge of tragedy for so long that I suspect I've begun to search it out. I would rather move forward again and enjoy the present, where my daughter is, where my weary wife and moody little boy need me to be.

~^~^~^~^~^~

I awaken and find myself awash in sunlight. At first I'm not certain what time it is; it takes a bit to orient myself and realize that from the angle of the sunlight through the window, which is on the west side of the room, it's evening and the day has gone. I must have been so briefly awake that I don't remember waking to check on Amy. I'm remembering the birth, holding her, nursing for the first time, a blur of smiling faces and Yves excited and shrill -- fragments of the day come back to me. I've never been this exhausted before that I couldn't stay awake.

As I sit up slowly I'm aware of soreness, but I have to see my baby. Jean arrives, shutting the door behind him, as I start to shove away the covers. "Here you are," he murmurs as he brings the small bundle of our daughter. "She's slept quite a lot, in spite of the attention."

I only have eyes for Amy, but the bond is persistent and stronger than I anticipated. I can tell Jean's tired and happy without trying, and no doubt this is how he knew I was awake. He leans and kisses my forehead.

"I'll get you something to eat," he says, then touches Amy's head, or rather the blanket that's wrapped around her. "Do you mind company?"

"Why would I?"

He raises an eyebrow. "You don't remember waking up before, do you?"

"I remember some things." And more, thanks to his remembering -- it's no trouble at all to read his thoughts. He's relaxed, open to me and even trying to help me see. Before, it was difficult for us to share such things. He smiles, aware of this change and quite pleased.

Amy stirs, yawns, and opens her eyes. The dark gray tells us she will have Betazoid eyes. I smooth back the blanket and notice her sparse, straight hair isn't as dark as I thought it was; now that it's dry, it's a familiar reddish-brown. Both of us are grinning, and the happiness doubled by our sharing it with each other. She's a product of mixed genetics; my father had light-brown hair, too. But it certainly seems that she's got her father's hair, and I can imagine what my mother will say about it.

A knock on the door interrupts our joint adoration of Amy's gripping ability. It's Bell, coming in to see if we're up to dinner. By which she means me. She glances at me but smiles at Jean-Luc.

"We'll be out in a minute. I'd like to wash my face."

She looks at me, confirming by her expression, which is so polite and forced, that I look horrible. "I'll set the table -- we should be ready in about ten minutes."

After she's gone, Jean-Luc takes the baby and helps me out of bed. He winces with me a few times. "I don't want to do this again," he says as I steady myself, pull on my robe, and take a few steps toward the door.

"Do what?" He's not sure how I'm going to react, and this worries me enough to bring me back to him. "Jean?"

We stand together next to the messy bed, waning sunlight staining the white linens to yellow, our luggage on the floor near a chest of drawers, and it strikes me how strange it would seem to some that we'd had a child here, in a house owned by people we do not know while staying with friends. I know the answer I would give and wonder if any would truly understand it.

"Two children is enough."

His face shows his age, as it hasn't done since the early stages of his recent recovery. Memories of the birth pass between us. He's probably not the first human who's experienced the birth of a child second-hand, as he isn't the first to marry a Betazoid. Still, it's not what I had planned. I hadn't anticipated this sudden change in our bond. If it had continued as I expected, he wouldn't have been able to channel so much of my pain.

"I'm sorry you had to participate on that level. I think something about our encounter in the park left us with a residual -- "

"I don't mean that. I can't watch you suffer that way again."

"It's not -- "

"I can tolerate a lot in the name of duty. I can't -- " He looks down at the baby, his inability to express it frustrating him.

"Then we're even. I'm not sure I could manage another round of alien-induced madness."

His eyes meet mine. We're lost for a moment in his regrets, my remembered pains and his, our mutual grief over the months of suffering. Then he pulls his mood up with a force of will that's typical of him.

"They're waiting for us."

He's right, so I head for the bathroom to wash my face and brush out my hair. There's a tiredness in the house, some resignation and wishful thinking; I can identify who's feeling what. Yves is worried about something. It's swiftly supplanted by anger. I pull my hair up into a clip quickly, intending to hurry out to see what's going on, and a muscle in my arm reminds me with a stab of pain how strenuous a natural birth can be. I've strained more muscles than I knew I had.

The living room, dining area, and kitchen are different -- there are plates and other receptacles arranged around the room. Will steals something from a bowl and notices me with a smile. "There she is!"

Yves leaps out from the kitchen, his face smeared, and Bell comes behind him with a rag -- a face-cleaning in process. That's a relief; I'd thought his anger was over something less trivial. I'm surrounded by all of them, including Jean-Luc and the baby.

"People have been bringing things all day," Bell exclaims. "You didn't tell us you had so many friends here!"

Betazoids don't have to know each other for months to make friends. "Did anyone bring chocolate?"

"Over here!" Yves dodges between the legs of adults to reach a plate of brownies. Will goes in pursuit, thwarts Yves' attempt to stuff a brownie in his mouth before picking up the tray, and picks up Yves. "Was getting it for Mama," Yves blurts loudly.

"Mama can get her own," Will says wearily.

"I'm sorry, he keeps getting into everything," Bell exclaims, retrieving John from under the table and removing a glob of something sticky from his fingers. "The minute we prevent one of the kids from eating candy, the other one is into a different plate."

"It isn't just candy. We're having Betazoid for dinner." Jean has put Amy in a carrier and placed her on the floor nearby. He transfers several covered dishes from the corner table in the living room to the kitchen table. John is not happy to be in a highchair, and Yves loudly expresses the wish to sit with me. The chatter while plates are covered with food and beverages are replicated is all about the food.

I note that Will and Bell smile at each other, speak casually, and though I sense all is not resolved, both of them seem set on being civil to each other. It isn't difficult for either of them to manage. Something's changed.

"How are you feeling?" Bell asks me finally, as we're moving on to dessert. Will glances at us, but is occupied with John's demands for an "ookie."

"Tired. But I was hungry." I picked up the baby after eating to hold her while everyone else finished at a more leisurely pace. Amy feels more secure while being held, which is not unusual, but since I'm sensitive to that I'll probably repeat the pattern I followed with Yves and hold her as much as possible. Letting others hold her won't be a problem, but I won't be able to leave her in a crib for long.

"And sore," Bell adds, giving me a knowing look. "At least you're not as upset as you were."

I know, from what I gleaned from Jean's memory of the day, that I was not the most pleasant person when she came in to check on me. "I'm sorry, Bell. I shouldn't have snapped at you."

"It's not unusual for new mothers to seem to be in an altered state. She -- " Jean stops when he realizes he's speaking to a doctor and a psychologist. He smiles sheepishly. "Sorry. I suppose I've had altered states on the mind, so to speak."

He hasn't tried to make light of it before, and the attempt catches me off guard. My sudden tears in turn catch everyone off guard. Yves slides down from his chair. "Don' cwy, Mama! I get you some chocwatt!" He stops, dismayed by everyone laughing at the offer, and to make him feel better I ask him to get me one of the brownies.

This is why we came here. The smiles, the happiness, the freedom to be ourselves and leave the uniforms behind for a while. It's what we've needed most of all. Though we could temporarily bury our worries in work, returning to family helps us heal the hurts and reminds us of why we're doing the work in the first place.

~^~^~^~^~

The neighbors descend in force on the second day after Amy's birth. The house is overrun by Betazoids, sending John into hiding and Yves into overdrive. He's never had so many people with eyes like Mama's to question.

I steal away with my daughter to change a diaper. Our room is empty. With the murmur of conversation punctuated by laughter in the distance, I unwrap her, clean her up, and pause to assess her at two days old. Her skin is soft and clean, her wispy hair reminds me of my own, and her eyes already show signs of being as expressive as her mother's. Or perhaps I imagine this in anticipation of having a happy little girl to spoil.

The door opens and closes. I know it's not Deanna, but I don't turn around.

"She's got you on your knees," Will says as his shadow falls over the bed.

I reach for the clean diaper. "I don't mind so much."

"Our guests finally left. Bell's assembling lunch. Any special requests?"

"No. I'll eat whatever's there. We have enough Betazoid dishes sitting around by now that we could eat for a week without replicating."

"Who are you?"

He's so serious, I look up from fastening the soft corners of the diaper. "We've covered this, Will. A couple of decades ago, when you first came aboard?"

"No. Who are you now?" Will sits on the edge of the bed and puts a fingertip in Amy's hand.

"I don't know how to answer that."

"I was afraid you'd say that." He sniffs, one end of his mouth rising in a smirk.

All at once, I'm angry -- at him, yes, but this is larger and fiercer than he deserves, and I realize at once that an outburst, though satisfying, would do neither of us any good. I hold the baby, wrapping spread fingers around her curled limbs and tiny body, forcing gentleness and barely touching her face with my thumbs. It's almost the same sort of caress I give Deanna sometimes -- thumb to cheek, then up along the eye socket to the brow. Amy turns her head to the right, mouth open, looking for something to suck on.

Will is musing as well; he contemplates, apparently, the baby's face. The silent moment gives me the opportunity to think -- memories spin, words and sentences from the past, and Deanna comes into clearer focus. She wants me to believe she can handle anything because she wants to believe it herself. She doesn't want to think of herself six years ago, of her despair over the impasse of falling in love with her captain. I tend to think of her as capable of handling any emotional crisis in a direct and mature fashion, but I see now that this is due to her counseling abilities. It's obvious, as I think about it, that it's only the crises of others she handles so directly.

And now, it's me. I've become close enough to her that she's less able to handle my difficulties. They become hers. Again, something I realized would happen, that she warned me about just before our first kiss, in fact. So I must now compensate and rely on her more as a wife, less as a counselor, in emotional matters. Somewhere inside I've still expected her to be both. I've waited for something that won't come, the counselor I knew would always be there to help me through, and I'm not alone in this.

Will invited us here and has spent most of his time waiting -- he's had that manner, of someone who's expecting something to happen and needs only to wait for it. He doesn't seem cognizant of the fact that she's a first officer, he's been off the ship for years now, and that there's no reserve of energy left in her to help him. He doesn't see what's so obvious to me. She needs to recover, she needs time and space and renewal, she isn't anyone's support at the moment. She even told him this, and yet somehow he still waits for it, as if he expects her to fall into the old role in spite of the changes.

I am the only support she has. Perhaps I should do as I've done in the past and lead by example.

"She isn't your counselor, you know."

Will nods. "That's what she said. I'm not sure why you think I expect her to be."

I look up at him, sit back on my heels, pausing in the rewrapping of the baby. My stare unnerves him.

"I don't need her as a counselor," he says softly, possibly to avoid sounding defensive.

"That's a relief," I say, picking up the last corner of the baby's blanket.

With Amy in my arms, I return to the dining room. Bell is carrying a pitcher from the replicator and nearby, Deanna is picking dishes from the collection on the counter. Predictably, she carries a platter of stuffed oskoid to the table. It's one of her favorites.

"I owe you an apology."

Deanna stops, crosses her arms, and waits for the rest of what I'm saying, hiding her feelings behind pursed lips. I suspect I may be scolded for this. Behind her, Bell turns her back and pretends pouring beverages is all-encompassing.

"For months, I've subconsciously expected Counselor Troi to show up. I realize that I've been waiting to be a patient again. Operant conditioning?"

She sighs, uncrosses her arms, uses a thumb to capture stray curls and put them behind her right ear. "That would presume you had come to a point at which you felt rewarded for counseling. We've been through this, Jean."

Will's followed me out; I hear his uncertain shuffle of steps behind me.

"I know. But I don't always have complete control of feelings, you know."

"Another presumption, that you have any control at all," she says, chin coming up and smile escaping. "Classical conditioning, to answer the initial question. The association of external stimuli with an event or object, until the stimuli alone triggers the response that the event once did. Operant conditioning involves rewards to modify behavior."

"Pavlov's Picard?"

Her brow furrows as she tries to contain incredulous laughter, as Bell is unsuccessfully doing in a corner, a palm to her mouth to muffle snickering. Deanna resolves her disbelief and grins in enjoyment of my ridiculousness, which she is probably sensing is deliberate.

"If only I had known that the captain's stern facade was a cover for a streak of mischief several parsecs wide," she says lightly. Stepping around the table, she kisses my cheek and smiles down at the baby, brushing Amy's cheek with a fingertip. She freezes as I place a palm on her cheek; she meets my eyes, asking silent questions. She doesn't attempt telepathy, however. I 'push' and feel the connection, test the bond, and as we share the thought she smiles and drops her gaze.

"Not mischief."

"No," she agrees softly. "I suppose not. But if I admit that it's a deliberate bit of buffoonery to cheer me up, I tend to react in ways you find uncomfortable in public."

"Or perhaps hold it at arm's length and analyze it?" I've teased her before about fly-by psychology.

She throws her arms around my neck and pushes her nose against my ear, her kiss landing somewhere on the soft skin of my neck. "Thank you, beautiful fish," she whispers in Betazoid. At least, I think it's that -- I know 'fish,' and 'thank you,' in several forms. The trouble with languages that have tonal components.

"Merci, cygne."

She stands back and takes Amy, and after seeing her seated I take her place in the preparations for lunch. Bell hums happily; on her way to the table with glasses, she bumps my arm with her elbow and smiles at me.

Will left the room at some point, as when I look he is not there, but he returns with the boys a few minutes after Bell and I sit down, and his expression is one of weary acceptance when he's not interacting directly with someone. He participates little in a conversation about the gregarious nature of Betazoids and why so many people we don't know come to see us. Bell wants to know more about what motivates strangers to come here when birth is, in her estimation, for family to experience.

At last, in a pause while Bell refills Deanna's glass, Will looks directly across the table at Deanna and says, "I'm sorry."

Bell raises the pitcher and glances at him, then gives me a look of incomprehension. I turn to Deanna and wait. She studies Will, while under the table her bare foot finds my shoe and slides up until her toes can knead my ankle.

"I understand," she replies at last, and Counselor Troi appears briefly in her clinically-empathic and appropriate smile -- the one that tells a patient she does understand from the professional and objective distance necessary. "Don't worry about it."

Will attempts a smile. "Pavlov's Riker."

Deanna and Bell shake their heads in unison. "It was only funny once." Bell reaches for his mostly-empty glass. "Afraid you'll have to find your own term, cher."

"Ookie!" John shouts, trying to wiggle out of his high chair and throwing down his cup.

"Cookie!" Yves exclaims. "Siwwy baby can't tawk!"

"You couldn't talk either, at that age," I inform Yves to distract him from the amusement everyone else is showing at this.

Yves stares at me in disbelief. "Could too."

It's interesting to realize the assumptions we didn't know we were making. Perhaps, as I age, I become more able to identify my own. Perhaps when Yves is older I can help him understand that assumptions can be damaging. It would have been useful for me to understand at an earlier age.

"You talked as well as John. You understood what he was saying, didn't you?"

Yves is so easily angered. He slides off his chair and is chided by his mother for leaving the table before being excused. Red-faced and loudly protesting, he climbs back up and sits frowning at his half-eaten lunch.

"Would you like a cookie, too, Yves?" Deanna asks.

He sits up straighter and smiles. "Yes!"

"Then finish your lunch. You too, John."

Yves' pout returns; he glares at John and grabs his fork. "Stupid baby."

"Yves. It's not John's fault you didn't finish eating. You aren't getting a cookie until you finish, and that's not John's responsibility, it's yours."

I wouldn't have expected her to speak this way to such a young boy, but she's done it consistently and I tend to do the same. She explained once that a child's verbal skills develop slower than understanding, and that Yves is following a learning curve that's more Betazoid than human. I don't care, so long as he's learning and we're getting along.

Yves watches John picking up vegetables in his fingers, then stabs at his own with the fork and crams food in his mouth until it's obvious he's racing with John, whose plate is emptier.

"Slow down," I tell him, and his look of agony at being forced to comply wounds me. I still remember being that frustrated by restrictions. Still, part of parenting is restriction, for the child's welfare. "This isn't a race."

Deanna strokes his head, distracting him from disgruntled contemplation of his plate. He leans on her and buries his face in her dress. After a moment of comforting him she nudges him away. "Finish eating."

This time, he complies without further protest. Bell seems a little surprised. She glances at me, then at Will. Hopefully she isn't comparing.

I watch out of the corner of my eye and when Yves puts the last bite of his lunch in his mouth, I speak. "Yves, could you get me a cookie?"

He's off the chair before he finishes chewing. When he returns from the counter he has the entire plate of cookies. He offers it to his mother first, brings it to me, and takes one for himself as I select one.

"Thank you. Give the plate to Uncle Will."

John leans and begs as Yves passes his chair; Yves hesitates, but after a look and a smile finishes his trip around the table. With the plate surrendered to Will, he races from the room, cookie jammed in his mouth. Fidele, as usual sitting out of sight in the next room for the duration of the meal, barks a welcome.

"So much for being excused," Will comments.

"We pick our fights." Deanna stacks Yves' plate on her own, collects silverware, and stands.

At least the remainder of our stay looks to be peaceful. I won't ask for details of what's happened between Will and Bell. Nor will I discuss my thoughts regarding what's happened between myself and Deanna, in the past or present. She is smiling, and I will do nothing that could threaten that. For now.

~^~^~^~^~

Amy is a week and a half old, and we're packing our things. Yves is overwhelmed and wanting to take people he's met back with us. I feel like I've wandered through a pleasant dream; eating, sleeping, and caring for the baby while life goes on around me. Not our life -- we've been living in some sort of borrowed existence, nothing like our own. Jean-Luc has relaxed into being just a father, the captain temporarily tucked away with the uniform and pips.

I'm trying to decide how to get everything we want to take into our luggage when Will comes in. "Got a minute, Dee?" He smiles, and for a moment I remember the young officer I fell in love with; this last week he's showered his wife and son with attention, and it appears to have had the usual effect of changing him into the bargain.

"I have many moments, since we're not leaving until morning. But I can only give you a few. Yves will be back any time now to see if Tas or Reed can come with him."

Will grins. "He's a great kid. Bell would love to take him with us."

"You're in a good mood." I fold shirts into squares, tucking in sleeves. One of them has the telltale stains indicating the presence of a baby in the family; I set it aside to recycle it. That's more room for other things. In the middle of the bed, Amy snuffles and continues to sleep undisturbed.

"I know what happened," he murmurs. "To Jean-Luc, I mean. He told me some of it."

"And I suppose what he didn't say told you the rest." A hole in one of Yves' shirts prompts another discard.

"You could have called me. I'd have listened, if you needed to talk."

"In retrospect that seems to me a bad idea, but I appreciate the offer, just the same."

He picks up pants and folds them twice over, giving him a reason to come closer. "You've been upset with me since you arrived."

"You perceive that I've been upset with you. I was, briefly."

We fold and sort clothing in silence for a bit, while he thinks. Finally, he says, "Bell and I are separating."

I feel like I've been kicked in the stomach. That wasn't what I wanted to hear at all. The shirt in my hands is Jean's; I resist the urge to find him or to cling to the shirt in his absence, and fold it carefully.

"She's going to spend at least a year in residence at a hospital on one of the colonies. She'll rotate back on board when there's an opening in my sickbay. Neither one of us wants to force one of the doctors to transfer before they're ready, and it will give us both some space."

I hate that hormones make me so prone to tears and so sensitive to others. Blinking furiously, I turn away to pick up a pair of shoes near the bedside table. They'll fit in the largest bag, in the end. Bending is easier without the pregnancy, though the extra weight I gained is still there.

"It's not ideal for John, but it's better than the two of us arguing all the time about it."

There are no easy answers. Sometimes there is only the best one can do with the circumstance. I know this. It's still unacceptable.

"I suppose he'll stay with Bell," I manage.

"I'll try to make at least one visit, and we'll meet to exchange custody once in a while."

"That's good." It's probably too obvious that I don't believe him, that I'm pessimistic, but it's the best I can do. I study the array of souvenirs and realize I've left one thing out of my packing plans. Dodging around Will, still without looking at him, I go out and fetch the clock from the shelf it's been on all this time and place it in the middle of the bag, then rearrange clothing around it haphazardly, undoing all the folding I'd been so careful about.

"That's got to be one of the ugliest clocks I've ever seen," Will says, feeling a little worried about me but knowing better than to tell me.

I want to defend the clock. It's the ugliest antique I've seen in a long time, and as a child of Lwaxana Troi, I've seen some ugly objects touted as art. But it's my husband's clock, and by association it's mine, and I can't possibly be light-hearted about it. Using a sleeve, I wrap the thing's legs.

"How long will it take you to put it in storage?"

He flinches when I whirl about and glare at him. There's nothing I can say -- it would come out incoherent and hostile, and it isn't his fault. I understand he's doing the best he can. I know he's probably tried to talk Bell around to staying with him. But she can't stay a nurse in his sickbay forever, he can't force doctors to leave to accommodate her, and she deserves a chance to move forward in her career.

And really, this isn't about him. Tears burn in my eyes. I can't exhale, because the result would be a sob. I can't move, or I would run.

"You're really mad at me, aren't you?" he says. "It's just a clock."

"I understand sacrifices." My chest heaves with the effort not to sob. "I understand temporary separation, and career issues. I will never understand you."

"What?" He leans in, head tilting, frowning and puzzled.

"I -- " But I don't have to understand him, my rational side has always told me. I don't have to know why, or how, or even what his decisions will be -- I've chosen to remain his friend, uninvolved in his more intimate affairs unless he wanted me to be, and in this case I have made a point of backing away and leaving him to handle everything himself.

And this is what he has done. Separation. Who am I to say it won't work out fine? But somewhere in my heart, the little girl whose father died wants to protect the little boy with blue eyes from this. It won't be permanent, as if Will died -- but I had endured that too. Daddy left us there on Betazed for months at a time. Every homecoming was special, resulting in trips and special treats, with no sense of normal.

"Where is your father?" I watch him do a double-take -- he never thinks of his father.

"No idea. What's that got to do with anything?"

"Probably more than you think it does." And that statement comes out colder than I wanted it to, smooth, flat, refined by an anger I had forgotten. It's amazing how certain circumstances make one remember old, old business that's been supposedly dealt with. But John is a baby, and all I can see in his future is a missing parent, whether it's father or mother, and on top of my own childhood I have the recurring nightmare of whether Jean-Luc is healing, whether it's only going into remission and sleepless nights and doubts of reality will return next month or next year or ten years from now. So much uncertainty surrounding so little certainty. And Will does not understand any of this, so how can I continue the conversation without trying to shake sense into him? This could be you, I want to scream -- this could be your life.

Except it couldn't, because he's too careful, asks for missions that are safer than probing uncharted regions near hostile territory. He did make sacrifices. Am I somehow angry about that, too? Why do I expect him to parallel my own experience? I always told clients, it's their life, their decision, their solution -- only they can really make the hard choices, because ultimately they alone have to live with the results. If that means Will's child will eventually hate and avoid him, as he has with his own father, so be it. There is no guarantee of how John will react, actually.

Who am I to say anything about his choices? I've been asking that, all this time, since our angry parting just before he left the *Enterprise.* It's got to be this undercurrent of expectation he's had on this vacation -- that I'll fix the problem for him. Counselor Troi to the rescue. Jean-Luc had apologized to me for expecting her to appear, and I hadn't caught on in spite of my confusion that he would expect it -- he'd made an example of himself because he noticed Will's expectation. And now I'm furious because Will expected it, and because I reacted so automatically, at least internally. Then he made the choice without my help and now I'm upset.

In the seconds it's taken me to think it through, Will stares, disbelieving and possibly somehow still thinking this conversation might go somewhere constructive. I want my husband, and he responds to that at once. A door slams, and Jean-Luc is there, as if he'd only waited for permission. His eyes alight with indignant ire, he's ready to defend me if necessary.

Will backs away from me. "I don't know, Jean-Luc. I only told her about Bell and I."

The vacation has helped Jean. He's himself again, not the weary captain I arrived with two weeks ago. He's studying me, looking for an answer to the riddle of why I'd been feeling so angry and helpless. We stand there in silence until it becomes obvious neither Will nor I will say anything.

Jean glances at the clock in its nest of clothing. "I intended to get a box for that."

"Jean. . . ." I can't say anything, and I'm not even certain what I would have said.

"I don't know why you're doing this now, anyway. I planned to help you tonight before bed. Come outside and watch Yves try to play catch with Reed and John." Jean gestures at the door.

He's so normal. He was so unlike himself four months ago that I was advised to consider an institution. I would have had to raise two children by myself. But he's so normal now, and it's such a relief, yet we're going back to the ship in the morning, then away on a new mission -- not another survey or another taxi job for high-ranking officials, but a real mission. And I will not be on the bridge with him. I won't be there to talk him out of whatever dangerous thing he could do in the line of duty, and while I'm certain Geordi will try, Geordi doesn't know how to argue with him yet.

Now he's staring into my eyes, questioning my resurgence of tears, waiting for an explanation. Will, taking the hint, slips past him and out the door.

"You've thought about the promotion?"

I sound too breathless. He straightens and tugs at an imaginary uniform, straightening his navy shirt instead. "I wasn't aware that I should think about it."

A wretched excuse for a laugh escapes me. "It isn't my place to tell you what to think -- they would give you an excellent posting, you know. It wouldn't be some office in the back hall."

"Is this an endorsement of the idea?"

I clear my throat. It's getting a little easier to breathe. "It's just a question. I was only wondering, and thought I should ask, so I could prepare for a move if I had to. It might take time to find a suitable home in San Francisco."

Brow furrowed, Jean contemplates this as if hunting for a hidden trap. "They didn't contact you, did they?"

"Who?"

"It's my fault, I suppose. I told them no, and they assumed you wouldn't accept a promotion either." He smiles faintly, crosses his arms, and studies the floor.

"They weren't going to promote me. You're getting better at lying convincingly, however."

"It was almost true. I was expected to see it as a reason to accept my own advancement, apparently. It was mentioned in passing as a possibility."

I exhale and shake my head. I won't tell him that particular bait had already been dangled in front of me, for slightly different reasons. "That wasn't fair of them."

"That's what I told Nechayev. That you should be offered promotion only when you deserved it, and that I won't be bribed into admiral's bars. One would presume she was somewhat offended that I read that into the conversation, if appearances counted for anything with her."

"You should be flattered. Look at the lengths to which they'll go to convince you." I take John Bull out of the bag; his eyelids flutter and bob, and the smaller of the two hands drops again to point at the six.

"What is this conversation really about?"

I suppose it's my habit to talk about something without really talking about it. He's asked me this question before. "I'm not certain."

His touch on my back precedes his arm slipping around my waist. "What are you afraid of?"

Shaking my head, I set aside the clock and start refolding clothing.

"You're upset about Will's solution to his difficulties with Bell."

"It's not a solution. Statistics on married couples enduring long separations -- "

"Will and Bell are not a statistic. Neither are we. Where did your faith in our friends go?"

A deep breath, then another, and I feel better about confronting him. Tucking a pair of pants into the bag, I turn and find myself in his arms. Easier now that I've had the baby, but still, my waistline makes me quite an armful.

He smiles, then kisses my cheek. His lips are warm and dry, slightly chapped I think. Rather than pull away he slides a hand up my back and holds me tightly. I close my eyes and imagine we're in a similar situation -- one of us in a desired posting, the other forced to choose between what's available or a separation and a more deserved position.

But the comparison won't hold. There's more to contest in Will's case; he hasn't been offered admiralty, and he doesn't think about retirement. I think I could guess the answer to the question of what Jean-Luc would do in a similar situation, but I don't know. I could ask him, but the answer would not necessarily be truth -- we are not in the situation, and we do not know what we would do once in it.

I want to return to the moment he kissed me for the first time, and live there. I want to be the woman he will never forget when he looks at other women, the center of his focus, the person he thinks about first every morning. I want to be the measure by which all women he meets are judged. I want too much, and I know that I have enough, more than many wives would be able to expect -- I know what he has suffered and endured and recovered from, the dark places in his life, the regrets he felt. I know him in ways that Will would never be able to know Bell, partly due to my empathy, and partly because we have a long history that Bell and Will do not.

The differences in themselves are not enough to make us immune from relationship problems; we could still find ourselves pulling away from each other. Hajira is not permanent nor is it binding. But there is that determination we share, to be certain of the other's happiness, and I think that this is what I should remember.

I open my eyes, and realize two things: Amy has awakened, and Jean-Luc is clinging to me and trembling. No, three things -- I'm crying. Too many emotions, too many thoughts, and he steps away to meet my gaze with tragic eyes that tell me he's been aware of all of it. Rather than speak, he rebuts the doubt and fear with a kiss, of the sort lovers give -- fervent, demanding, intrusive. I can taste bitterness in his mouth and know that he's been eating more of the Betazoid treats the neighbors have left for us. His emotions are like mine, desperate and intense, but he craves something other than reassurance. Or, something in addition to it.

This reminds me of his mood when we left Ten Forward together and started a relationship that became a marriage. I once feared that I would not be adequate to meet his expectations, or his needs. I feared he would lose interest in me, change his mind about wanting a relationship, decide we weren't compatible after all -- all those fears had proved false. Things he had said seemed to indicate he had similar fears, once upon a time.

But we are not the same people, with the same fears. We have come through events that nearly ended everything for us, almost lost his sanity to terrible brain damage, and we have been so careful of each other since. The fear must be related to the changes in us.

We rest after the kiss, nose to nose, foreheads together, and he's keeping his eyes shut. He loves me in silence, unutterably affected and not knowing what else to do to help me. Amy won't allow us this moment. After a few grunts and breathy noises, she cries in the way of the newborn, plaintive and without the volume of more developed lungs.

Jean goes to pick her up, drawn to his daughter, careful in gathering her in both hands and leaving behind the blanket she's been wrapped in. Her limbs, still bowed and tucked as they had been for so long in the womb, twitch with the force of her cries. He settles her in his arms, holds her close, and strokes her hair, murmuring something I can't make out.

I cannot have a guarantee that this will always be, this love and security I have with my husband. I cannot keep him forever. I have always known this, but like anyone else, I must learn and re-learn the lesson of acceptance and endurance. It's only that our lives lead us into such extreme situations that we're forever dancing on the edge of loss. I can't carry a false sense of security, can't wrap myself in a daily routine as if we held jobs within four walls and planet-bound, where even the weather could be predicted.

But at the same time, I cannot say that I would want to change a thing.

"She's hungry." My voice is still slightly husky with emotion. He waits for me to sit down, passes her into my arms, and sits beside me.

In the dusk of a colony I have never been to and will probably never see again, I lean on my husband, warm in the curve of his arm, and nurse a child to whom we will be home and safety. We promise our children things we cannot always give them and do our best to provide. Only time will decide if it is possible for us to keep that promise.

"I love you," I whisper to both of them, close my eyes as Jean-Luc kisses my hair, and let go of the fear. We are together. It is all we really have, and it's all I want.

Love is compared to many things for many reasons. For now, for me, it is a many-stranded knot of the people we have known, the places we have been, the circumstances we have lived through, and at the center of it all we are together. May it always be.

~^~^~^~^~^~

We shall not cease from exploration  
And the end of all our exploring  
Will be to arrive where we started  
And know the place for the first time.  
Through the unknown, unremembered gate  
When the last of earth left to discover  
Is that which was the beginning;  
At the source of the longest river  
The voice of the hidden waterfall  
And the children in the apple-tree  
Not known, because not looked for  
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness  
Between two waves of the sea.  
Quick now, here, now, always--  
A condition of complete simplicity  
(Costing not less than everything)  
And all shall be well and  
All manner of thing shall be well  
When the tongues of flames are in-folded  
Into the crowned knot of fire  
And the fire and the rose are one.

~ T.S. Eliot


End file.
